


Perfect Porcelain

by EdgarAllanCat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Drug Use, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Institutions, Overdosing, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllanCat/pseuds/EdgarAllanCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since meeting Charlie, Sherlock's life has gone downhill. He's living in a drug clouded world without realising all the problems around him. It's hard for anyone to help when he can't believe that he needs them. Mycroft is just hoping he can get Sherlock out before it's too late</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Love and Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Dubious consent, PTSD, Drug Use
> 
> I don't know what may happen in the future, but anything triggering in the chapters I'll try to warn you about.

The pain was almost unbearable. Scratch that. It was unbearable. It felt like his stomach was being stabbed with Uriel's flaming sword. Obviously a grenade had gone off in his head and there seemed to be ants crawling through his skin. All in all, Sherlock felt very much like dying. If he could go right then and there he would have, anything to get rid of the pain. Anything to get the taste of bile out of his throat.

  
"Something wrong, Sherlock?"

  
The sweet voice from atop the bed got his attention, temporarily bringing him out of the pain of his own mind. Everything seemed so loud, as though the thoughts in his head were amplified and echoing off the walls of his mind palace. "Everything hurts," he said in a small voice that sounded quite unlike his own.

  
The bed squeaked as Charlie moved to look down at Sherlock; watching the boy try to curl up tighter into a ball as though that would make the pain go away. "You're going through withdrawal," Charlie casually told him.

  
Sherlock whimpered, wishing he could escape his body. "Make it stop."

  
"I could," Charlie said, hiding a smile. Sherlock was weak, useless, and all together pathetic. An addict without his medicine. And, now, he was all Charlie's. "The only question is: why should I?"

  
That seemed like a ridiculous question to Sherlock. There he was, feeling like someone had run him over several times, and Charlie wanted to know why he should help him. Whimpering, Sherlock moved his arm away from his eyes and looked up. "Please," he said, the word falling weakly from his lips.

  
"And what will you give me in return?"

  
"Anything," he whispered without hesitation. "Everything, all of it. Whatever you want. Just make it stop, please."

  
Charlie smirked. Oh, this was better than he imagined. "I don't know, Sherlock. You've not been very good lately," he said, reaching down and running his thumb along Sherlock's cheek. "Maybe I should just let you ride this one out. Then maybe you'll learn not to be so greedy with your medicine."

  
Sherlock tensed, feeling tears prickling at his eyes. "Please, Charlie," he repeated, wincing as he uncurled himself from his ball. His muscles ached, instantly rejecting the change in position. "I hurt...all over. Please, I need it. Just a bit and I promise, I promise, I won't take a lot. I'll leave you plenty. I just...please, don't..."

  
Charlie considered him for a moment before giving Sherlock a small nod. “Get on the bed."

  
Despite how sore he was, Sherlock scrambled up and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to present his arm to Charlie.  


With a small laugh, Charlie pushed his arm down. "Not that easy, sweetness," he said. "First, I take what's mine, then you get yours. Have to know your word is good. After all, how can I trust you?" The question was accompanied by Charlie tracing a fading yellow bruise alone Sherlock's wrist. "Undress, Sherlock."  


Eyes wide, Sherlock paused to make sure he'd heard correctly. Apparently he waited a second too long because the next thing he knew his ears were ringing. He heard the smack before he felt heat rise up in his cheeks. Blinking back tears, he looked at Charlie, searching his face to find some kind of remorse. Instead all Sherlock saw were Charlie's brown eyes, staring him down and silently asking why he was still dressed. Wrong, Sherlock thought, that was wrong. No one just hit someone for no reason. "I'm sorry," he said, looking down.  


"Prove it."  


Hands shaking, Sherlock reached down and grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.  


"Good boy," Charlie said, knowing the praise wouldn't be lost on Sherlock. "Here, baby, you're shaking so bad. Let me help."  


As Charlie undid the belt, Sherlock began to relax under his touch. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. It wasn't as though he had never been touched before, it was just that he had never really gone this far with anyone before. But, maybe with Charlie it would be okay. After all, he was gentle and kind.  


"Now, if you listen to me and do exactly what I say then we can get you your medicine," Charlie said as he pulled off Sherlock's trousers. "Now, lay on your stomach and don't move."  


As he flipped over onto his stomach, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to distance himself from his body. It was usually very easy to do. A needle in his arm vein kept the noise at bay. Without the medicine in his system it become more difficult to escape the world. He felt everything happening to him. He could feel Charlie's breath hot against his neck, the sweat gathering on his forehead, and the pain that shot through his muscles.  


The pain of withdrawal, however, did not prepare him for the pain that accompanied what Charlie called sex. Was this how it was supposed to be? Other people did this, right? Was it supposed to hurt like this? Squeezing his eyes closed tight, Sherlock bit down on his arm until his mouth tasted like pennies. He had imagined sex with Charlie before and in his imagination it had been nice, he had felt fantastic in his head. But, the reality was much harsher. His body was tense, tears slipped down his cheeks, and his heart pounded against his ribs.  


"Good boy," Charlie said in a rough voice as he gripped Sherlock's hair.  


A yelp escaped him as he was forced to stop biting down on himself. Without that distraction he was forced to feel everything happening to him and it just felt wrong. His body felt too full and his skin was quivering beneath every touch. By the time Charlie pulled out, Sherlock was a shaking mess. He reached up, grabbing a pillow and burying his face in it, trying to steady his breathing or stop it completely. Whichever came first.  
Charlie flopped down on the bed beside him, his breathing heavy, and Sherlock wondered how long it would take him to recover from this. What if there wasn't supposed to be a recovery? What if Charlie was fine and it was just him that had done something wrong?  


Without picking up his head, Sherlock reached over and put his hand on Charlie's. It wasn't until he felt his boyfriend's fingers intertwine with his that he relaxed even a bit. It had been horrible and he had hated it, but Charlie was still there. Charlie was still beside him.  


"You want your medicine, Sherlock?" he asked.  


Sherlock nodded. He needed it. Not just to get rid of the pain and shakes, but to be someone else for a few minutes. Just to get out of his head. Anything. Anything to make it stop.  


"Come now, be a big boy, use your words. Get your face out of that pillow," Charlie laughed, shaking Sherlock slightly.  


With a small whimper, Sherlock forced himself up. Bile rose in his throat. It was just the medicine, he told himself. The lack of medicine was making him sick. It had to be that. Because he couldn't deal with accepting that it was, in fact, because of Charlie. Charlie wouldn't make him sick.  


Looking him over, Charlie ran a finger over the bruise forming on Sherlock's cheek. "Learn to listen next time, won't you?" he asked, his tone indicating that he didn't actually expect a response. "Medicine is in the box by the window. Go get it and bring it back, I'll fix you up."  


Never before had Sherlock been embarrassed by his own body. Nudity was nothing to him because it was just a body. But there was something absolutely humiliating about having to get off that bed, his body bared for Charlie to see, and move to the window. He could feel Charlie's eyes on him the entire way over there and a blush rose to his cheeks as he leaned over to open the shoebox.  


"You didn't get off on that at all, did you?" Charlie asked. "You're completely dry and limp. You're like the Sahara desert over there. What, was I not good enough for you?"  
Sherlock froze, his fingers barely touching the small baggie of powder. A lump formed in his throat as he tried to find the proper way to respond. It wasn't like he had anything to compare it to. No one had ever touched him like that before. No one had ever had sex with him before. He took a shaky breath and shook his head. Was he supposed to get off on that? Oh God, of course he was, that's what most people did. A normal person would have. Why couldn't he just be normal for Charlie? "You were great...I'm just sick right now."  


"You're sick in the head, Sherlock. But, don't worry, I'll make you better."  


With a weak smile, Sherlock returned to the bed and handed the baggie off to Charlie. The two sat in silence for a moment while Charlie expertly prepped the medicine, heating it in a burnt spoon. "Thank you," Sherlock said suddenly, looking down at his hands. "For...everything...."  


"Yeah, well, it's tough to deal with you sometimes. Most people probably would have given up on you by now," he explained, his eyes focused now on the needle in his fingers. "I mean, even your own brother kicked you out."  


"That was because of the medicine," he quickly interjected.  


With a sigh, Charlie shook his head. "No, sweetness, the drugs were just his excuse. He didn't want you around because, think about it, you're horrible. But, hey, as long as you’re useful you can stay here. Arm? Good boy." After kissing his hand, Charlie tied off Sherlock's upper arm and slapped at the vein. "Next time you'll enjoy it more. After all, you should have enjoyed it. Most people would." He looked up, letting the medicine hover just above Sherlock's arm. "Seriously. I could have picked anyone, and I picked you. You can at least appreciate that."  


"I am! I mean, I'm glad that you...I wanted you...I-I'm happy."  


"You don't look happy."  


"I am! I just...I'm really sick, Charlie. Please, please, just help me get better. Once I'm better everything will be better and you can do whatever you want. You can have anything, everything, just...just please. Please, I can't take this."  


Holding his gaze for a moment longer, Charlie stuck the needle into Sherlock's skin and drew out the plunger, blood mixing with the medicine. "Oh, sweetness, I already have everything," he said before slowly pushing the medicine into Sherlock's body.  
The effect came on slowly, but soon Sherlock was absolutely floating. He laid his head down on Charlie's knee, listening to the sound of his heart in his ears. The pain eased off and over the next few minutes, Sherlock was able to escape his head. "I love you," he said, drawing patterns on Charlie's foot with his finger.  


"Good, cool," Charlie said, patting Sherlock on the back. "You just keep on doing that. I gotta get some work done."  


Sherlock looked up, brow furrowed. "You're leaving?"  


"Yeah, kiddo, I can't be around here just because you want a cuddle." He shook his head as he easily moved Sherlock off of his lap and started gathering up his clothes. "You'll be fine. It was just sex, Sherlock, don't think too much about it."  


Just sex, Sherlock thought, right. It was just sex, people had it every day. It didn't really mean anything...did it? It shouldn't. Before he had the chance to think too much about it, he felt himself being pushed and quickly found himself face down on the floor.  
"Are you so stoned that your hearing has gone out too?" Charlie snapped. "I said don't get blood on the bed. Jesus, Sherlock." Shaking his head he threw on his shirt. "Try not to ruin anything while I'm gone." Before he left, he paused and gave Sherlock a gentle kiss on his head. "Feel better, sweetness, hopefully the medicine will help."  


It wasn't until he heard the door shut that Sherlock checked himself over. How had he gotten blood on the bed? There was no blood around the injection site so...oh no. Sherlock paled and ran a hand between his thighs. Whimpering, he brought his sticky hand back. He was covered in come with very small droplets of blood. Not enough to cause serious damage, but enough that he was a little worried. He curled up on the floor, freezing and scared. Was there supposed to be blood? Or was that his own fault? Maybe he had moved wrong. Charlie knew what he was doing and Sherlock didn't. So, it couldn't have been Charlie's fault...right?  


Very slowly, Sherlock started to redress. He felt absolutely disgusting and sticky and like he needed a very long shower. He also felt like he needed to be anywhere else. Just for a little while. After a walk he could clean himself up a bit and wait for Charlie to return. Deciding to forgo the shower, he put his dirty clothes back on and stumbled out of the bedroom and into the musty corridor. Everything in the complex smelled like mold and dirt, and it was something that, eventually, a person just got used to. Sherlock had complained about it until Charlie had asked him if he was going to pay for them to stay somewhere nicer. Stupid little rich boy, always needing the absolute best. Sherlock hadn't mentioned it again.  


The air outside was chilly, but Sherlock was far too high to notice something as pointless as the temperature. He wandered through the streets of London, quite unsure where he wanted to be. There was a war going on in his head as he walked. He wanted to find Charlie, just to be close to him again, to feel his comforting touch. But, he also didn't want to be obnoxious, and a part of him wanted to be as far away from Charlie as possible. He rubbed his nose against the sleeve of his shirt as he turned to limp down a familiar street. He wasn't quite certain why he knew this street so well. Maybe it was the one that led to his favourite coffee house? Or maybe it took him to Ozzy's place. He had spent several nights on Ozzy's couch while the good doctor kept him in supply of medicine and patched him up.  


Sherlock didn't even feel like himself as he stepped onto the porch of a well-kept three-story home. His brain knew exactly what he was doing and was screaming at him to stop, but his body wasn't listening. He moved the flower pot by the door a few inches to the right, just enough to get the key he had hidden under there months before.  
The lock clicked open and Sherlock let himself in, not caring that he was tracking mud into the home. He started to flop down on the sofa before he remembered that there was still blood on the backs of his legs and some of it might have seeped through his trousers. Charlie, he knew, absolutely hated when things were messy. So, he laid down on the floor, dragging a pillow down from the sofa to rest under his head. Comfortable and warm, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to sleep off the pain.

\---

It was several hours later that Sherlock started to come around. Whimpering, he pulled the blanket around him and tried to curl up close to Charlie. All he found was empty space, which wasn't all that surprising. Charlie often left before Sherlock woke up. All he wanted was to put his head on Charlie's lap and for Charlie to pet his hair and maybe put on a Smiths record or something. He didn't want to be alone anymore.  


"I see you're finally awake."  


That. Voice. Sherlock's eyes shot open and he rolled over, trying to adjust to the light. "How did you get in here?" Sherlock asked, pulling the blanket tightly around him. As soon as Charlie got back, there was going to be a fight. God, he couldn't believe his brother would actually chase him down like this!  


Mycroft sat across from the teenager, brow raised as he took in Sherlock's question. "Sherlock, this is my house," he said as he moved to stand. Walking across the room he looked down at his brother but didn't make a move to touch him at all. "You were passed out on my floor....you also have a fever."  


"I'm on the sofa," he pointed out. Groaning, Sherlock flopped back on his pillow. "You moved me? You physically picked me up and moved me?"  


"You're really not that heavy."  


"I can't believe you! This is a complete violation of--"  


"Sherlock, shut up," Mycroft snapped.  


It seemed to surprise both Holmes boys when Sherlock did shut his mouth. He stared down at the floor, gripping the blanket ever tighter and trying to will away the pain in his backside. Why did that work? He had never once in his life stopped talking just because his brother told him to. Usually that just made him want to talk and argue more.  


"Right then," Mycroft said, breaking the silence. "I'm going to make some tea. What do you take?"  


"Don't."  


"Do."  


"No."  


"Yes."  


"Mycroft..."  


"Sherlock."  


Pouting, Sherlock rolled over. He knew that the two could continue in this fashion for quite a while, but he frankly didn't feel up to arguing anymore. "Honey," he finally said as he traced patterns on the back of the sofa with his fingertip.  


"Did you just call me...oh, right." Mycroft shook his head and stepped out of the room to go put the tea on.  


And Sherlock was left alone, just like he had wanted. Alone and awake, his thoughts started to wander. He had no idea how long he had been gone and he had no idea when Charlie would be home. What if he was angry? No, Sherlock rationalised, it couldn't have been that long. He didn't feel sick yet. The medicine was still working, keeping his mind clouded and keeping the pain at a minimum.  


Maybe he could still make it home without Charlie noticing he was gone. God, he was going to be so angry. What if he ignored him or kept the medicine away? It was possible, Sherlock thought, that Charlie could grow tired of dealing with him. After all, he was hard to deal with, wasn't he? Mycroft didn't want to deal with him, his old dealer hadn't been able to deal with him, and his mother had long ago stopped caring. Charlie was his last hope to have someone -anyone- in his life. He couldn't screw this one up.  
But what if he already had? He hadn't reacted during sex and that couldn't be normal. Charlie wouldn't want something that didn't respond. It wasn't like he detested sex, he thought as he chewed on his shirt sleeve. Hadn't he gotten off on a blowjob before? It wasn't that much different, was it? It had to have just been the lack of medicine. If he'd had that then things would have gone much better. He probably would have enjoyed it if he wasn't himself at the time. Without the medicine, he was horrible. He didn't enjoy anything and the pain was unbearable. With the medicine, he was alright. People could be around him and he could actually talk to them without them hating him.  


"You have to sit up to drink," Mycroft told him.  


Sherlock jumped slightly, getting pulled out of his own head and back into reality. How long had he just been laying there and thinking? "Don't want it."  


"Sherlock..."  


"Fine!"  


Gathering his blankets around his shoulders, Sherlock forced himself to sit up, his stomach feeling like an invisible string was tugging at it as he did. Taking a breath, Sherlock tried to will his hands to be steady. He waited until his brother had taken a seat in the armchair to pick up his tea and bring it to his lips. "Ow!"  


"It’s hot," Mycroft told him, shaking his head. "You have to actually let it cool before you drink it. You know that. This isn't the first time you've had tea."  


Great, now he had gone and gotten himself hurt. Typical, he thought as he stared down at the tea. He wasn't even smart enough to drink tea without getting himself in some sort of trouble. Was it possible for him to do absolutely anything right or did he have to mess everything up? Charlie was right. Charlie was lucky. At least he could get away from Sherlock when it became too much. Sherlock was stuck with himself. The medicine helped to a point. But he was always stuck in his head with his thoughts and he didn't have the choice to leave.  


There were times, however, when the noise was slightly quieter. Times when he had his head on Charlie's lap and Charlie was just talking to him, telling him stories and things about his day and Sherlock could just lay there and listen. Everything felt better then, like they really could be in love and they really could make it.  


Smiling to himself, Sherlock brought the tea back to his lips and took a sip.  


"Ow!"  


"Sherlock! It’s still hot! We just went over this!"  


Pouting, Sherlock put his tea cup back down and glared at it. "I thought it would be cool by now. I waited."  


"You waited less than fifteen seconds."  


"It was longer than that. I waited five minutes."  


Mycroft stared at his brother for a moment, worry etched on his face. "Sherlock...how long was I making tea?"  


Sherlock rolled his eyes and drew his knees up. He glanced over at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, just to make sure he was right. After a moment he realised it wasn't ticking and he remembered that he had taken it apart the year before because the ticking had gotten on his nerves. Great. "Twenty minutes," he guessed, scratching at his arm under the blanket.  


Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "Seven minutes and forty-seven seconds."  


"You count when you're nervous."  


"And why would I be nervous, Sherlock?"  


Alright, he could do this. Sure, his internal clock may be screwed up right now, but he could still read people. Pursing his lips, Sherlock stared his brother down. Trying to figure this out made his head hurt, but he felt like he had to. "You moved me off the floor, which means when you came home I was sprawled out on the floor, asleep. So...when you came in you assumed I was dead...Am I right?"  


"You're not completely wrong," Mycroft told him and watched as Sherlock lit up at the small bit of praise. "I checked your pulse. What you're mistaken about is being asleep. You were not asleep, you had passed out."  


"Same thing."  


"No, it isn't. You had a weak pulse and I was waiting to see if you needed medical attention."  


Hospital. Mycroft was threatening him with hospital now. "Don't," Sherlock said instantly as he tried to vanish inside his blankets. Why had he come here? He should have known that he would only be greeted with threats from his older brother. It was ridiculous. He must have just gotten lost on his way to...wherever it was he was trying to get to.  


"I would much rather keep you out of hospital, Sherlock, you know that. I don't have any interest in making you go to hospital or anywhere for that matter. However, if your life is in jeopardy, then you do not get a say in the matter and will go to hospital. Let's try not to allow it to get to that point."  


Sherlock huffed. "I have it under control, if that's what you're asking. I'm not dying, I'm perfectly fine."  


Mycroft raised his brow and took a small sip of his tea, obviously mulling this over.

"You have it under control?"  


"Yes, I do. I know how much I'm taking and I know when to stop."  


"You're just a casual user then?"  


"I only take it to not feel sick."  


"Sherlock," Mycroft started. He stopped himself from whatever he was going to say and just shook his head. "How long have you been wearing that shirt?"  


Sherlock simply shrugged and curled up into the corner of the sofa. "You've already pointed out that my perception of time is off. You're just attempting to humiliate me further by asking questions."  


Rather than continuing to argue with his brother, Mycroft stood back up and dusted imaginary dirt from his blazer. "Four days, judging by the condition. I'll draw you a bath and get some arnica for your eye."  


Instantly, Sherlock moved his blanket to cover the right side of his face. It didn't hurt, but he had no idea what it might look like. "It's fine. I asked for it."  


Pausing, Mycroft looked down at his brother, masking his face to look unconcerned. "You did, did you? Tell me, how did you ask for a bruise like that?"  


"I wasn't listening."  


"You never listen."  


"Well, maybe I need to start," Sherlock snapped and curled up tighter.  


"Maybe you do," Mycroft said, tension in his voice. If Sherlock was sober then he would have noticed the slight shake in his brother's voice. If he was sober, he would realise how absolutely terrified his brother was. But Sherlock was not sober and all the words just sounded like words to him. Words without any meaning. Just sounds. "Come on, Sherlock. We can at least get you cleaned up a bit."  


Nodding, Sherlock followed behind his brother. He was still wrapped up in his blanket, apparently not quite ready to let go of that yet. If Mycroft cared he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he led Sherlock through the house and sat him down on the edge of the tub while he ran the bath.  


"I'm going to trust you enough that you won't manage to drown. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is have to monitor you while you bathe. After all, you're not six anymore."  


"I'm sixteen," Sherlock told him, watching the water.  


Mycroft sighed and checked the temperature. "You're seventeen, Sherlock."  


Oh, how had he forgotten his age? No matter, age didn't really make much of a difference to him. Maybe it had mattered at one point, but now he couldn't care less. Charlie was older than him, he knew that much. Charlie had mentioned that age was really an illusion. So, knowing his age was ridiculous.  


"Sherlock," Mycroft said, getting his attention. "Give me your blanket and I'll leave you alone for a while."  


Standing up, Sherlock unwrapped himself from the comfy confines of the red blanket and handed it over to his brother. Hands shaking, he tried to undo the buttons on his shirt. His fingers felt thick and he couldn't quite get a good grip on the small plastic buttons. Each time he tried to slide a button through the loop, his hand slipped.  


"Here," Mycroft said and stepped forward. "Your hands are shaking horribly. Let me help."  


Panic rushed through him, lighting his brain up almost instantly. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as Sherlock resisted the urge to vomit. He shoved his brother back and reached up to grab hold of his shirt. "Don't fucking touch me," he hissed and took a careful step back.  


Blinking in confusion, Mycroft held up his hands in a surrender pose. "Sherlock, calm down, I'm not--"  


"Don't. Just shut up. Just...I have to go."  


Stumbling, Sherlock took a step back before running out the door. His head felt big and his chest was burning. He closed his eyes, not knowing or caring where he was going. Somewhere in his brain he knew every twist and turn on the street and he didn't need sight to navigate around. Rain came down in sheets, soaking him through. Everything in him was screaming out and he didn't know how to stop it. He could still feel hands clawing at his shirt, and he wanted to take everything out of his brain and just throw it down on the sidewalk.  


Slowing down, he coughed and struggled to catch his breath. His lungs burned, rebelling against the cold air. Leaning back against a building, he could finally pause, the fear leaving him and being replaced with deep embarrassment. He had ran. He had just taken off and ran because his brother had...what? Tried to help him with his buttons? God, he was never going to live this down. He felt completely foolish and ridiculous.  


As he resumed walking, ignoring the rain, he had to wonder what on earth had possessed him to go to his brother's house in the first place. It wasn't like Mycroft would be any help. After all, hadn't Mycroft already washed his hands of Sherlock? What had Sherlock expected? Money? Mycroft always had money and the thrill of stealing it had passed long ago. Certainly not comfort. God, the cold streets gave more comfort than Mycroft ever did. Obviously, it was just a reaction from the medicine. He had gotten so high that he couldn't tell up from apple and had wandered in. That's all it was.  


Shaking the water from his hair, Sherlock slipped into the rundown building and threw his coat on the radiator to dry. Closing his eyes and holding his breath, he could hear The Smiths playing in his and Charlie's room. Charlie was home. How was he feeling? Was he angry that Sherlock had skipped out? How long had he been gone for? He took a deep breath and opened the door, hoping they wouldn't fight. He hated fighting with Charlie. It never went anywhere.  


Charlie was laying on his side, watching the door with mild interest when Sherlock walked in. "Hey, babe," he casually greeted. "I wondered when...Sherlock, you're absolutely soaked." He got up from the bed, approaching with caution. "You go out for a walk?"  


Oh, good. Charlie didn't seem angry. "Yeah."  


"Need the fresh air or just like how it felt?" he asked, smiling slightly. His smile grew slightly at Sherlock's confused silence. "Slut. Alright, come on, babe, let's get you into something dry." He smiled, gently stroking Sherlock's arm and relaxing him. Charlie stepped away, dragging clothes out of the pile. "You alright, babe? You seem really tense tonight."  


Sherlock shrugged, focusing mostly on Morrisey's voice. "I saw my brother today."  


"Did you?" Charlie asked, sounding incredibly disinterested.  


"Yes. It was unpleasant...I don't like him...I don't enjoy him accusing me of anything. And that's all he ever does. It's obnoxious."  


Walking back over, Charlie gave Sherlock a small smile and kissed his cheek. "I know. He's perfectly horrible to you, and you don't deserve that from him, do you? Don't worry, you're safe now, babe. You're back home where you belong." With steady hands he worked on getting Sherlock out of his shirt, putting him into something much drier and warmer.  


"It's just very frustrating. I'm not even sure why I went there. I was trying, I think, to see Ozzy. I must have made a wrong turn."  


"Oh, I heard he got out of jail."  


"Ozzy was in jail?"  


Charlie gave a small laugh and handed Sherlock pair of flannels. "You're really behind on the times, kiddo. Now, I don't want to hear another word about Mycroft or Ozzy or any of that. Okay?"  


Sherlock nodded and slipped out of his trousers, sliding on the warm and dry flannels instead. He felt warm again, despite the water still clinging to his hair and arms. Looking up, he gave Charlie a smile. "Nothing more about them," he promised, not wanting to focus on his brother anyway.  


"Good boy. Now, come lay down with me."  


That was easy enough to obey. Sherlock scrambled onto the bed and into what had become his favourite position: curled up with his head on Charlie's chest. They were still, and Sherlock just lay there and listened to his boyfriend's heartbeat. It felt like a lifetime away that he had been at his brother's home. There was only now and time was just an illusion. Despite all the pain of earlier, he felt like he was warm and loved and complete. Charlie seemed like he had forgiven everything that had happened and that was good enough for Sherlock.  


"You're thinking awfully loudly, babe. Feel like telling me what's going through that pretty little mind of yours?" Charlie asked as he threaded his long fingers through Sherlock's damp curls.  


With a content little sigh, Sherlock moved into the touch and let his eyes flutter shut. "I'm just thinking," Sherlock explained, breathing in Charlie's shirt. "You were at the fish market today. Which wouldn't be abnormal except that we have no way of cooking fish and, besides that, I know you hate the taste of fish." He rolled over and looked up, a small smile etched onto his lips. "So, there must have been something more interesting at the market." There it was, that little spark of intelligence that made him so damn proud of himself. It was what set him apart from other people and made him special, made him useful and worth keeping around.  


If Charlie was impressed then it didn't show on his face. He stared down at Sherlock, his lips pressed into a tight line. "Don't act like a freak, babe, it doesn't make you as endearing as you think it does."  


The smile fell from Sherlock's lips and he rolled back over to stare at the wall instead. His mind was all he had, it was the only thing he could impress Charlie with, and it seemed to just be an annoying gift. "So...what were you doing at the market?" he ventured to ask.  


"If I wanted you to know then don't you think I would have told you?" Charlie pointed out, moving his hand down to gently rub Sherlock's back.  


The tender touch was such a violent contrast to Charlie's rough voice that Sherlock wasn't certain which to believe. He waited a few minutes to see if Charlie would continue to be angry, but the gentle rubbing continued and Sherlock decided that Charlie probably wasn't too angry over the deduction. "I've heard about people bringing shipments of drugs in through exotic fish. Of course, it would probably be that much easier to put it into a common market fish and then remove the drugs once the shipment came in. Then it could be easily sold to the consumer. Am I right?"  


Charlie's hand stopped and he was quiet for a moment. "This makes the third time I've told you to stop, Sherlock. Now, I really shouldn't have to ask more than once. Tell me, why am I having to ask three times?"  


Pausing, Sherlock waited to see if that was a rhetorical question or not. The following silence made him conclude that it was not. "Sorry," he mumbled, pressing his face against Charlie's ribs.  


"I didn't ask if you were sorry. I asked why I had to repeat myself three times in order for you to understand that I was getting annoyed. Can you answer that one for me?"  


Sherlock hesitated, trying to come up with an answer that wouldn't make Charlie angry and might even make him look endearing. He wasn't coming up with anything. His brain could remember every detail of a room or complex equations, but he couldn't figure out how to work with people. "I was just curious. I thought that the fish smuggling method was very clever and seemed like the sort of thing that would peak your interest." He just hoped that the compliment buried in his explanation wouldn't go amiss.  


After a moment, Charlie laid back down and draped his arms around Sherlock's thin body. "I'll worry about it in the morning," he finally decided with a yawn. "I can't even deal with you right now."  


It wasn't exactly what Sherlock wanted, but it was better than a full out fight. It was better than having the neighbours call the cops again because they were yelling at each other. Or, rather, Charlie was yelling and Sherlock was trying to be heard. "Charlie?”  


"Mmm?" Charlie muttered, opening one eye to look down at his boyfriend.  


Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek and rolled over to look up at Charlie. "I think I'm starting to come down..." he trailed off, hoping he wouldn't have to be blunt and needy now.  


"You gonna cry about it again?" Charlie asked as he shifted out from underneath Sherlock. "You know, I think you take it for granted how much I really do for you here." As he spoke, Charlie started digging around in the side table drawer.  


"I'll do better," Sherlock promised, eagerly watching Charlie dissolve the fine powder into water.  


"Yeah, well, I don't really have much faith in your promises, babe. You'd sell the world for a drop of medicine, wouldn't you?"  


Sherlock went to sit up, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt. "Not entirely," he said, wanting to calm Charlie down a bit before they did this. The last thing he needed was Charlie angry while he was holding a needle. "I mean to say, I could probably get heroin anywhere. It isn't that hard to come by. But, you are hard to come by..." It certainly sounded like a nice thing to say. It seemed like the sort of thing a normal person would say to someone they were dating.  


A smirk crossed over Charlie's lips as he readied the syringe, setting aside the burnt spoon. "Yeah, well, I put up with you because no one else can," he said softly, and gently kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "You ready, babe?"  


Smiling, Sherlock leaned against Charlie and ran his fingers along the older man's leg. "I love you," he said and held out his arm.  


"Good. Now, hold still."  


Sherlock let Charlie tie off his arm and took a deep breath. Charlie slapped his arm twice and then stopped, groaning.  


"I need your other arm."  


"What?"  


"You blew out your vein here. Let me see the other one."

  
He'd blown out his vein? How had he not even noticed that? Had Mycroft noticed? Sure, he had heard about that sort of thing happening, but that only happened with people who were bad addicts and he was convinced that he was little more than a casual user. Heart pounding, he shifted himself to give Charlie his other arm.

  
"Good boy," Charlie said and bent over to kiss the crook of Sherlock's arm. He undid his first knot and redid it on the other arm. "That's better. You've still got a vein over here." Focusing on his work, Charlie stuck the needle into Sherlock's vein and drew out the blood, before gently pushing the medicine into Sherlock's body.

  
Closing his eyes, Sherlock felt the chemicals mixing with his blood and changing his brain. The noise and all of his worries started to vanish as he laid back. Feeling the mattress dip with Charlie's weight, Sherlock rolled himself over and back into his favourite position again. As he listened to Charlie's heart beat and focused on breathing out every time his boyfriend took a breath in, Sherlock started drifting off into a nice medicine-induced sleep.

  
Charlie's heartbeat echoed in his ears and he was pretty sure he could hear someone saying his name, but his eyelids felt too heavy and he couldn't make himself focus on anything. It occurred to him that his heart rate was slower than usual, but it was nice. Just falling asleep and not caring about anything was wonderful and if he didn't wake up, well, that was okay too.

 


	2. Of Cake and Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Mentions of physical abuse, drugs, manipulation
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes. I only read over this one two or three times and tried to catch everything.

There were several problems associated with Sherlock's medicine. One of the less unfortunate problems was that, on occasion, his memory became a tad bit cloudy. At first, this was the worst thing in the world for him because his memory had been the most important thing to him. Now, he didn't mind occasionally forgetting. It certainly helped him get through the day most of the time. The problem was that he couldn't quite remember how he had gotten into this particular alleyway or what he was hoping to accomplish.  


Sitting on the damp concrete, Sherlock drew up his knees and tried to remember what his plan was. He remembered waking up and feeling sick, he remembered being on his knees, his head in Charlie's lap. He could remember being on the bed and the next thing he remembered was the needle going deep into his vein and washing away all the pain. He remembered how his legs felt but he couldn't remember why they had hurt so much in the first place. It wasn't from the withdrawal. Perhaps it was best not to question the gap there. It felt more like a forced deletion of memory than medicine induced forgetting.  


There had been a fight and it took several moments of frustration and hair pulling for Sherlock to remember exactly what the fight had been about. Money. But, then, wasn't that what most domestics were about anyway? It was so ordinary that he couldn't quite figure out why he even cared. Then it occurred to him that money was directly related to medicine and that was something he did need. That was something worth fighting about. He had promised to go out and try to score to calm Charlie down. He vaguely remembered a gentle apology and gentle kisses. But, he couldn't quite recall what Charlie was apologising for and that part was frustrating to him. All he knew was that he wanted to score and get back home and just feel alright with himself again.  


A door in the alley swung open and Sherlock had to move quickly to avoid getting hit by a bag of trash. "Hey," he snapped, getting up to his feet. "Watch where you're throwing things. I was trying to think."  


"Tryin' to think," the man asked as he walked out into the alley. "Tryin' to think while sittin' in rubbish in a dirt nasty alley? And you 'pect me to believe that, do ya?"  


Squinting, Sherlock stepped forward. His vision was blurry, but he didn't really need to see to remember people. That was a voice he wouldn't forget. "Oswald Dupond," Sherlock said slowly as he advanced towards the tall blond man.  


"Yeah? Who wants to know?" He paused and his mouth fell open slightly. It took him several seconds to recover enough to speak. "Oh god, Shezza," he asked, squinting. His posture and dialect both changed in an instant. "Jesus Christ, what happened to your face, mate? You look like you've been runned over a couple hundred times."  


"Ran."  


"What?"  


"Ran. Ran over, Ozzy. Honestly, you're the one who went to university. I thought you would know this sort of thing."  


"And one would assume that you would stop getting into fight."  


Sherlock frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't remember getting into a fight," he mumbled, speaking more to himself than to Ozzy.  


Concern etched into his worn face, Ozzy stepped forward and looked Sherlock over. "How high are you?"  


"High enough?"  


"Yeah, that's what I was worried about. Come inside, I'll get you cleaned up. And get in quick, I got cops patrolling the whole damn place."  


Sherlock didn't have to ask why the police were hanging around. He remembered Charlie mentioning that Ozzy had been in jail and, judging by the state his body was in, he hadn't been out too long.  


The pathetic state the flat was in came as no surprise. Clothing and empty bottles were strewn about the floor and it was obvious that Mrs. Dupond had been neglecting he housework since her son's return. The two had never been terribly strict about cleaning and that was part of why Sherlock had always felt comfortable with the older man and his mother.  


"Just...just sit down, Shezza," Ozzy said, brushing back his thinning blond hair. "I'm going to get a wet towel. Mum is at the bakery so as soon as she gets in we'll get you all fed and everything will be alright."  


Sherlock didn't have any doubts that things would be fine as they had always been. Things seemed to have a way of simply working themselves out and he never really had to worry about much of anything. The sofa sagged as he sat down, curling into the corner and resting his head on the arm. Through his blurry vision he watched Ozzy flutter around the tiny flat, his hands constantly going to brush through his hair or rub as his eyes as he gathered up a clean towel and hurried into the kitchen to get it damp.  


"Who the hell did you piss off so bad they decided to take it out on your entire face," Ozzy called over the running water.  


"I don't remember. It doesn't really hurt." Part of that was true. His face and body were really quite numb at this point. Maybe later on they would hurt when he was coming down, but for now everything felt alright. His memory was starting to come back as he realised that he hadn't been anywhere aside from Charlie's flat and the alleyway. There were only so many causes of his current condition.  


Ozzy muttered something to himself before grabbing a pair of blue nitrile gloves off the box on top of the fridge.  


Chuckling slightly, Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his arm. "Did they let you keep your gloves in prison? Did you get a special mental health pass so you could wear your gloves?" He couldn't imagine Ozzy doing anything without having his hands covered. The idea of him in a filthy environment like a jail cell and having bare hands was almost horrifying.  


"Everyone in prison suffers from OCD, Shezza. If you don't have it when you get there you'll have it when you leave," Ozzy explained as he slipped on the gloves. "Now, let me see your face and let's get you cleaned up."  


"When did you get out of prison," Sherlock deflected.  


"Eight days ago. Now, let me see your face."  


"What were you in for?"  


"You bloody well know what I was in for," Ozzy said, sounding absolutely exasperated by all of this. "Now, come on. Let me see that fucked up face of yours. S'not like I'd do this for anyone."  


Sherlock groaned and threw his other arm over the back of his head. "I'm fine," he repeated. "Just tell me why everyone in prison has OCD and let me rest for a few minutes. Then I'll be out of your way." He just needed a few minutes to collect himself. Just a few seconds of quiet to get all of his thoughts in order and he would be fine.  


The sofa shifted again as Ozzy let out a heavy sigh and moved back away. He was quiet for a moment and Sherlock could feel the older man watching him. If Sherlock were to look up he would see the concern in Ozzy's eyes. He would see the man pursing his lips as he struggled with what to do about this. If he dared to move he would see Ozzy toying with his gloves in anxiety. But he didn't look up. He kept the shame of his face hidden and refused to see anything.  


"You don't have any control," Ozzy began, "you're told when to eat, when to sleep, when to go outside. It becomes very routine and there's nothing to do. People need to have a sense of control over their lives. Honestly, you'd think drugs sell high there, but it isn't just drugs. People want control and sometimes they want to clean. I knew a guy who cleaned his floors every hour on the hour. Another guy had coloured cloths. His food went on the green cloth. Cleaning supplies on the yellow cloth. Toiletries on the blue cloth. He was particular about it, you know? It's just how things go. I don't like having things touch my hands. I was already adjusted to that."  


Sherlock quietly listened, feeling calm and safe in the little room. Just listening to someone else talk about their problems made him, for a moment, forget his own problems. It was easier to ignore them in favour of a more interesting problem. "So, you didn't need to change your habits?"  


Ozzy gave a small laugh. "Of course I did. I had to change a lot of things. But, I didn't feel weird about my ticks. Everyone had something that they obsessed about. Now, I think that's more than enough about me. How about you, Shezza? What's been up with you? You miss me?:  


"I didn't even notice you were gone."  


"Your words cut me, Shezz," Ozzy joked, moving off the sofa.  


Sherlock listened to Ozzy's footsteps move from the carpet to the lament flooring. There was a click and a few clacks as Ozzy grabbed mugs from the cabinet. "I really didn't. Your arrest had little to no effect on me. I still got exactly what I needed, I just also no longer had to pay for it."

  
"Tricked someone else into paying for you," Ozzy asked.  


"No tricking involved. Just got with someone who was willing to pay." Cautiously, he peeked out from his arm and chanced a glance at Ozzy.  


There was a brief pause from Ozzy. He stopped for a split second while getting down the honey before turning and leaning back against the counter. "Oh, did you now," he asked, his voice teasing. "And who is this mystery person? Do I know them?"  


Sherlock hid his face again and made a noncommittal sound. "Possibly."  


"Oh, c'mon, Shezza. You can't hold out on me here. You've got to give me something. Who it is?"  


"You sold to him."  


"Him. That narrows it down a bit. Alright. I'm going to guess...Mark."  


At that, Sherlock looked up and smirked slightly. "Mark? Mark didn't have anything going for him. Last I checked he was still living in an abandoned warehouse and smoking with drop outs."  


"You're a drop out," Ozzy pointed out.  


"Not the point."  


"Alright, alright. Not Mark. Well, who isn't in jail. Thom? Is Thom in jail?"  


"Who the hell is Thom?"  


"Okay, fair point. Let me think. Well, I know it isn't Carter because he died last year. Jimmy got clean. Calvin moved. You wouldn't put up with someone like Charlie. And...Richard has been with the same girl for the past four years."  


With a satisfied snort, Sherlock brushed back his mop of curls and stared up to the ceiling. "You're wrong," he said quietly.  


"Wong? What, did Richard and Gina break up?"  


"I could not care any less about Richard and Tina."  


"Gina."  


"Whatever."  


Ozzy stared at Sherlock for a moment, trying to read his younger friend's expression. "Sherlock..." he started slowly.  


The smile dropped from Sherlock's face and he turned his attention to the kitchen. Ozzy never called him by his real name. In fact, Sherlock hadn't even been certain that Ozzy knew his real name. "What?"  


"Are you involved with Charlie?"  


Sherlock simply shrugged in response.  


"Sherlock," Ozzy repeated and moved back towards the sofa. "Sherlock, did Charlie do this to you? Wha-What has he done?"  


As Ozzy approached the sofa Sherlock groaned and pulled his arm back over his face, shrinking away. "Nothinh, Oswald," he snapped, annoyed that the focus was back on him and what had happened. "I don't believe it's any of your business."  


"It isn't my business? Sherlock, you're the one that showed up at my house, bloody, and half dead."  
"I didn't show up at your house, I was in the alley."  


"Oh. My. God. What. Ever. God, you make me so mad I could just--"  


"Hit me," Sherlock growled, throwing his arm away from his face.  


Ozzy met his glare and the two stared each other down, each one wondering when the other would break.  


In the end, it was Ozzy who looked away first. There was a click as the door unlocked followed by gentle humming.  


"Oz, love, I was hoping you could run to the store and--"  


"He's fine," Ozzy said, cutting her off.  


Ms. Dupond had not been paying much attention to her surroundings until Ozzy had decided to let that little phrase fall out of his mouth. "That does not inspire much confidence," she said as she moved into the sitting room. Pausing, she regarded Sherlock for a moment before quietly nodding and moving to put the bags on the kitchen table. "Oz, could you help me put these away?" she asked him calmly.  


"I'm a little busy," Ozzy told her  


"Oswald," Ms. Dupond repeated a bit more sternly. "Why don't you help me in the kitchen for a moment. And by that I mean: Come help me in the kitchen. Now."  


Ozzy hesitated for a moment before letting out a defeated groan. "Fine. Sherlock, don't you dare move."  


Sherlock hated how he twitched at Ozzy's command, but he covered it up by burying his face back into the arm of the sofa. He listened as Ozzy stormed into the kitchen and started whispering with his mother. The conversation was, no doubt, dull. Nevertheless, Sherlock turned his ear up to try and listen. After a few seconds he realised that they weren't speaking English. He was used to Ozzy occasionally breaking out into French to swear, but this decidedly wasn't French. Groaning, Sherlock realised exactly what it was and why he couldn't understand it. Welsh. Fucking Welsh. No one spoke Welsh. Not even the Welsh! The only person he knew who spoke Welsh was Mycroft. It was a pointless language.  


Annoyed and bitter, Sherlock bit down on his arm as pain crept into his head. He could feel his heart beating behind his eyes as he began to feel the bruises on his cheeks. It wasn't unbearable. He knew what unbearable pain felt like. The kind of pain that made you want to die rather than spend one more second in the vessel you called a body. This he could handle for now. As long as he got back home before too long and got another dose of medicine he could ignore the pain.  


A bitter groan escaped his lips as he heard the front door slam shut. He drew his legs up underneath his wiry body, trying desperately to make himself smaller or disappear entirely into the sofa. "I don't care," he said as he heard someone take a seat in the armchair beside him. He knew what was coming and he wanted to stop it as quickly as he could.  


"Don't care about what," Ms. Dupond asked him, keeping her voice causal. "Aside from the obvious Everything that you don't care about. There's some tea if you want it."  


"I don't want any tea.  


"You don't have to take it then."  


"Fine," Sherlock snapped back, rolling away so his back was facing her.  


"Fine," she agreed.  


Sherlock was quiet for a moment, his teeth still pressing slightly against his forearm.  
"And I don't care about your ex-husband."  


"Of course you don't. Why on earth would you care about that? He was not a good person and, to be quiet honest, I'm glad he's out of our lives forever. Although, I do have to ask why you would be the one to bring him up. It's not as though you are suffering through anything like that. Right?"  


She was teasing him, Sherlock was certain of that much. She had to be. Pushing him to say things that weren't true. "I bring him up because I know what Ozzy told you and it's completely ridiculous. He's been in jail and then he gets out and the first thing he does is decides to attempt to control my entire life." That may have been a bit of a stretch, but Sherlock needed someone to blame. "Don't believe what he may have said about Charlie."  


Ms. Dupond made a quiet humming sound as she took in Sherlock's words. "You speak Welsh?"  
"No one speaks Welsh."  


"Then how do you know what Ozzy told me?"  


"I don't have to know Welsh to know Ozzy. He's a loudmouth. I've known that for a while. I just came here--"  


"To buy drugs," Ms. Dupond interrupted. "Which is exactly what we were discussing. Calculating your weight with the proper dosage. Ozzy is very particular, you know. He wants to make sure people get exactly what they need.  


"He's obsessive compulsive. He's obsessive about it," Sherlock corrected. He was a bit confused about how relaxed Ms.Dupond seemed about her son's business, but if he was getting medicine then he wasn't going to question it too much.  


"Hmm...yes, he is that. I wish you boys could get a normal hobby. Why can't you go down and watch the trains or something?"  


"My brother does that. He's weird. Obsessed with trains."  


"No he doesn't. You're lying."  


Moving his arm, Sherlock rolled back over and stared at the woman. She was gazing placidly at him, her dark hair brushed back from her plump and cheerful face. She looked to Sherlock as though they were discussing nothing more serious than the weather. "And you just know that? You don't know my brother. Or me."  


Ms. Dupond shrugged and sipped her tea. "So, you were lying?"  


Had he just been tricked somehow by a middle aged woman? Sherlock pouted slightly and crossed his arms. "Does it matter?"  


"Does it?"  


"That's not a response! Just...just say whatever you have to say and give me what I need so I can leave."  


She pursed her lips and gave a small nod. "I'll make you a deal."  


"I can already feel how much I'm going to hate this," he muttered.  


"Can you hold still for me," she asked and sat her tea down. Moving slowly, she picked up the rag that Ozzy had prepared before and looked towards Sherlock. "I prefer to see people's faces before I sell them anything. Have to make sure they're trustworthy. Helps if I know what they look like."  
Sherlock eyed Ms. Dupond suspiciously, unsure what her real motive was. "And then I'll get some of Ozzy's stuff?"  


She nodded.  


"Fine," he mumbled, closing his eyes and resigning himself to his fate.  


Ms. Dupond moved to sit beside him. When she went to touch his face he tensed and jerked away and she waited for him to relax before she took the cloth to his chin. He expected her to try to talk to him about his life. But she didn't. He thought that she would press him for information. But the only time she spoke was when she gently explained what she was doing. She told him when she was going to wash the blood from his lip or the dirt from his neck or when she was going to get more warm water. When she went to clean off his cheek, Sherlock pulled away.  


Ms. Dupond immediately stopped and waited patiently for Sherlock to relax. "I promise it won't hurt," she told him when she realised he was going to stay backed in the corner of the sofa.  


"Don't care."  


"Clearly you do. It's just a small place. It probably won't even bruise too badly."  
Sherlock shook his head and cupped his cheek in his hand, pressing down as though he wanted it to hurt. As though he wanted to be reminded that the bruise was there. Maybe if he felt the pain over again he could remember. "I don't know what I did," he admitted quietly, half talking to himself.  


"You pulled away. I was just trying to--"  


"No. I don't remember what I did to Charlie."  


Pursing her lips, Ms. Dupond laid the cloth down in her lap and looked Sherlock over. "Has he ever hit you before today?"  


"Once? It was the other day."  


"And why did he hit you then?"  


"I wasn't listening." Sherlock wasn't sure if that really counted as a hit. It wasn't like it even hurt. But as he looked down at the blood on the cloth he realised he must have done something particularly horrible to have made Charlie quite so angry. "I just...I just need what I came for and then...I have to go home."  


He thought she would try to stop him or tell him she wasn't going to sell to him. He thought there would be a lecture or her telling him about her life. Instead, she got up and quietly walked into the kitchen. Pulling on his coat, Sherlock managed to get up and follow quietly behind her. His legs felt stiff as he moved and he ended up leaning against the counter and watching her wrap up a bag. He felt odd as he watched her. As badly as he knew he needed to get back to Charlie he just didn't want to leave. He liked the way Ms. Dupond spoke to him. The way she didn’t act like he was completely incompetent.  


"There are some cakes in here," she told him as she turned around with the bag. "Ten fold."  
Reaching into the pocket of his leather Jacket Sherlock pulled out a very crumpled ten pound note and laid it on the kitchen counter. "Good. All I got." He'd have to eventually find a way to get more money. It had been several weeks since he'd pawned anything from his brother's house and this was all that was left after taking his violin into the shop. It hurt a little bit, but not nearly as much as withdrawal hurt.  


Ms Dupond laid the bag beside the money and looked back to Sherlock. "You know it's cut right. Not mixed with anything and should last you a bit. If the cops stop you then you've just got a bag full of cakes. And you can always come back here if you need something."  


"Why?"  


"Because you're a friend of Ozzy's, dear. And you know where we are and you don't seem to cause trouble."  


"No. Not that." He wasn't sure how to explain it. She hadn't lectured him or tried to tell him how he could better his life or talked about Charlie. She had even run Ozzy off. It was nice and he wasn't sure why she was acting like that. She had just cleaned him up and then sold him drugs and she had been so gentle. Ozzy had been rude about Charlie and Mycroft had been clearly annoyed by the drugs. But she hadn't pushed him about anything. "I mean...why do you speak Welsh?"  


"Oh, well, that's simple. Because no one speaks Welsh."  


"You...you're French."  


She nodded and shrugged her shoulders. "If you want to talk about things without someone knowing then pick a language most people don't speak. Everyone speaks French. But no one speaks Welsh. And those who do deny their abilities. Welsh is really the best way to have a private conversation."  


"My brother speaks Welsh but only because I don't."  


"The brother who doesn't watch trains?"  


"Yeah, that one."  


With a smile, Ms. Dupond pushed the bag to Sherlock. "You're a silly little boy. You can wait for Oz to get back if you'd like. You certainly seemed comfortable on the sofa."  


It wouldn't have been the first time that Sherlock had fallen asleep on Ozzy's sofa. However, the very idea of having to see Ozzy again filled him with a sense of dread. He wasn't about to stand around and have Ozzy tell him what not to do. Not when he could take this to Charlie and hopefully have everything go back to the way it usually was. He would have actually not minded staying to talk to Ms. Dupond. She wasn't dull like most mothers. She was quick and not overbearing. There was definitely something to be said for her, but Sherlock wasn't sure what it was. He needed more information. The ever growing drumming in his temple however wasn't terribly interested in what made Ms Dupond different from other people.  


"I should get going," he told her and tucked the bag under his arm. "I'll be back the next time we're out."  


"Of course. Or, stop by for dinner. Ozzy is always bringing boys off the street for dinner. Always different ones. Always named Oliver and Dodger," she mused, smiling to herself as she relayed the oddities of her son. "In any case, I'm delighted that Oz is out of jail and you can come by again and not get...whatever it is that you're on now."  


He didn't know where Charlie's supply came from. Well, he knew in his mind but he had never outright asked Charlie. "I'll keep that in mind..." He rubbed his arm a little self-consciously.  


"Good boy." She gave him a smile which he felt like he couldn't return.  


There were no goodbyes because Sherlock found goodbyes to be tedious and wasn't entirely clear on exactly how they worked. If Ms. Dupond was bothered then she didn't make any mention of it. As Sherlock stepped back out into the alleyway he unrolled the top of the brown paper sack and took out a small cake. There were at least a dozen in the bag, all individually wrapped in cellophane. The smell of fresh strawberries hit him and made his stomach tighten and remind him that it had been more than a couple of days since he had eaten. He rolled up the bag and stuck it into his pocket, peeling the protective wrapping off the small cake in his hand. Cake and medicine was more than enough to repent for whatever it was that he had done to make Charlie angry.  


The cake was absolutely marvellous and Sherlock wondered by the Duponds would ever have to sell heroin when they made cakes that were so fantastic. It was soft and the bits of fruit seemed to completely melt in his mouth. His stomach complained when he finished, demanding more, but he wasn't going to risk getting sick by pushing himself to continue eating when he knew his stomach had already shrunk. So, he ignored his belly. It had become easier to ignore over the past couple of years.  


He remembered being in conservatory in America. Technically, there were three meals a day and he attended, at most, half meal. Usually he was far too busy to remember to go. Either he was practising on his violin or running around New York City. Half the time he just ended up lost and quite a ways away from the arts school. But there was always something to do there that was more important than dinner. Whether that something be getting lost in Brooklyn or watching the girl from the nearby Catholic school perform songs that were decidedly not Catholic.  


Then he remembered getting kicked out of the conservatory over an incident involving the Catholic girl, a motorbike that may or may not have been won during a poker game, and the school's rooftop. He remembered having to live with his brother and having meals all but forced in him. He remembered how it didn't matter if he was hungry or not, Mycroft would sit at the table until Sherlock ate at least half of what was on his plate. Eating had become obnoxious and tedious and just another thing he had to do or someone would shout at him. He remembered missing the freedom of New York.  


Then there was Charlie. Charlie didn't make him eat if he didn't want to or sleep if he wasn't tired or change his clothes or any of the pointless things that Mycroft had said he had to do. Charlie let Sherlock try new things that Mycroft would have disapproved of. He was the best thing since New York and Sherlock wanted to keep this as long as he could. When they met, Charlie had loved his deductions and liked to hear Sherlock tell people's life stories. He liked that Sherlock could remember things and had a seemingly never-ending source of information he could spew out at any given time. There hadn't been a lot of pressure and it was different from school where people just told him to shut up.  


He couldn't pinpoint when things changed and when he had become so obnoxious to Charlie. All he knew was that he had to fix it. If there was just one person in the world that accepted him then it was worth it. He didn't like most people and had learned at an early age that most people didn't like him. To find someone that did like him, enough to want to keep him around, as terrifying and exciting all at the same time. And he was going to do his best to keep things right, even if he didn't exactly know how.  


There was no real lock on his building. Technically speaking, people didn't actually live there. The door was closed and it just took a small bit of tugging to get it open. The corridors had an odd dampness to them and Sherlock could smell small amounts of mildew growing in the corners. He swore that it was colder inside than it was outside. The bitter chill of the coming winter crept through his leather jacket and made his bones ache. People upstairs were yelling in Italian and people at the end of the corridor were having loud sex inside their flat. It was never quiet and it kept some of the noise out of Sherlock's head. There was, at least, a lock on the door leading to Charlie's flat. Not a very god lock. One that took Sherlock less than twenty seconds to pick. But, it was a lock and it gave a very small sense of security.  


Activating the tumblers with a small pin, Sherlock stepped inside and was greeted with the little warmth that Charlie's space heater provided. It wasn't a lot, but it was better than being outside. Pausing, he listened as The Sex Pistols played in the bedroom and thought about how much he absolutely hated The Sex Pistols and how no one in that band could even play their instruments. Not that he could ever voice that opinion about Charlie's favourite band.  


Instead he pulled out the bag and sat it on the filthy kitchen bar. There was a layer of dust on it from the lack of use over the past several weeks. Sherlock liked it. The dust told him when anything was moved and when something changed. Things could be replaced and made to look like they had never been moved. But dust didn't lie.  


John Lydon's voice died down and Sherlock stopped, holding his breath. He never thought he would be bothered by not hearing Anarchy in the U.K being played at inappropriate volumes, but it worried him. He froze with his hand just barely hovering over the bag and waited, listening to the mattress creak and groan and then the footsteps on the scuffed up wooden floor.  


Closing his eyes, Sherlock measured the footsteps. Charlie wasn't wearing his shoes, making it a little harder to judge. But, he wasn't storming in and sounded like he was dragging his feet a little bit. Asleep. He had been asleep for a while, clearly. That was good. Charlie always felt better after he slept. At least, Sherlock hoped this would remain true.  


He kept his eyes closed until he felt those familiar arms around his waist, pulling him close, and felt Charlie's chin on his shoulder. Not mad. That was good. That was an improvement.  


"What's in the bag, Locky," Charlie asked as his fingers ghosted along Sherlock's thigh.  


Taking a breath, Sherlock wished that he could relax. He wished that the gentle touching didn't make him tense up so much. God, why couldn't he just react like a normal human? Why was his brain processing the amount of pressure and anxiously trying to predict Charlie's next move?  


"A ten fold," he said, letting out his breath.  


Taking one hand away from Sherlock's body Charlie grabbed up the bag. "What the actual fuck?" He moved away, digging through the bag until he found what he was looking for. A tiny bag buried in the bottom found its way into his hands and a smile crossed over his face. "Well, haven't you just been a good boy today?" He reached out, gently brushing back a stray curl from Sherlock's eyes.  


Sherlock winced, anticipating something much harsher. His cheeks flushed quickly with embarrassment. It had just been a gentle gesture. Nothing to hurt him. It was okay. So, why was his heart still pounding inside his chest and threatening to bust his ribs open?  


Charlie stopped and looked to Sherlock, his brow furrowed as he tried to understand the reaction. "Hey, come on now," he said softly and took Sherlock by the hand. "I'm not going to hurt you, kid. It's alright." His voice was barely above a whisper and he moved slowly as though Sherlock were a skittish rabbit. "What's got you so...oh. Are you still thinking about the row this morning?"  


Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot, craving the closeness but at the same time being absolutely terrified of it. He didn't know whether to move back of closer in. It was driving him mad as he tried to foresee the consequences of each action. "You hit me," he finally said as he decided to just stay still.  


"I know...I know," Charlie said, looking down. "That was...I should have done it differently. I should have handled things differently. Sometimes I forget that you're a kid. You just drive me absolutely mad sometimes and I've never had to deal with anyone like you. You're not like most guys, Lock. Hell, you're not like most people in general. You understand that, right?"  


Sherlock wasn't sure and he hated not being sure. It made sense, but it still didn't explain to him what had happened. He also hated being referred to as a kid. He thought he was more mature than that. He certainly wanted to be. "My lip was bleeding," he muttered in a childlike voice.  


"It won't happen again. You just...you wouldn't shut up regardless of how many times...look, it doesn't matter now, does it? We're both here and everything is going to be alright. I promise. You're here and you're safe, okay? Everything is alright as long as you're here and safe. I was so worried and now...now you're safe. I promise. You're safe."  


That was a bit more comforting. Charlie did want him there and whatever he had said that morning was apparently forgiven. "I don't want to talk anymore. Talking is tedious."  


Charlie laughed a little and brought Sherlock in close to him. "There we go. You're probably exhausted. How about we just lay down and listen to The Smiths, yeah? You like The Smiths, right?"  


Sherlock stared down to the ground and gave a small nod. He did like The Smith's, he thought that Morrissey understood the world in a different way. Sort of like the way he understood the world. It was one of the few artist he was actually glad that Charlie had introduced him to.  


When Charlie embraced him Sherlock tensed, though he couldn't explain why. He was forgiven, right? Wasn't Charlie being gentle enough now? Finally, he leaned in and let himself be held. He was so touch starved that he needed something. Anything to be able to reassure himself that he was fine. Anything to feel like he was a real person and not just the shell of someone.  


"Good. Good. Glad we got that settled. Let me just fix one thing and I'll take you back to the bedroom and we'll get everything sorted out." Charlie untangled himself from Sherlock and went to the kitchen counter. After slipping the baggie into his pocket he took the bag from Ms. Dupond and threw it in the trash, getting rid of all the delightful little cakes. "There we go. Don't need to be eating that shite. God only knows what it'll do to a person."  


Sherlock felt his stomach tighten and he instantly wished that he'd gotten more than one of those cakes before Charlie threw them out. He was shocked, his jaw open as though he was about to argue as he stared at the bin in mute horror. "They weren't bad," he managed to say, taking his eyes away from the bin and the discarded cakes. "She isn't a terrible baker."  


Smiling, Charlie walked back over and took Sherlock's chin in his hand. "She's not that great," Charlie said and lightly kissed Sherlock. He tasted like stale coffee and sleep and it made Sherlock's throat tighten. "I'll tell you what, kid, I'll take you out tomorrow. How about that? It'll be like a date. We'll get you some actual food."  


For a moment, Sherlock considered pointing out that they were low on money, but he didn't want to start up another argument. Besides, who was he to question such a gift like food? Especially when it was coming from Charlie? "I think that would be nice."  


"It will be," Charlie promised him and gave him another light kiss. "Promise. It'll make up for everything that happened this morning. Besides, you might be a little less obnoxious on a full stomach."  


A date out with Charlie and food and probably a decent dose of medicine. Sherlock wasn't sure that things got much better than that. As bad as things started off, Charlie always had a way of making him forget everything. Maybe it was the promise of food, the solution in his veins, or the sound of Morrissey's voice, but Sherlock felt like he was home.


	3. Of Lunch and Cops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I know it took me a while to update, but someone wanted to be quiet and not come out and let me write him. However, he's recently come out more and let me write.
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> Manipulation  
> Severe food aversion  
> Vomiting  
> Mentions of abuse

It was numbingly cold. Small flakes of snow were fluttering down, and melting against the street. The city generated enough heat that the snow would never last, but the downside was that there would be a layer of dirty sludge in the gutters that would last through the week and woud make everything wet and downright unpleasant. Despite the fact that there wouldn't be a proper snowfall people still seemed to be panicking over the very idea of snow. They were hurrying through the streets as though afraid that by the time they got home their doors would be barricaded by a layer of ice.

 

With his scarf wrapped around his mouth and his leather jacket zipped up tight, Sherlock barely noticed the cold. Well, it was either his clothes or the numbness from the high. It was just his ears feeling the chill and making him shiver a little. However, he wasn't about to complain about the weather. It meant that less people would be out and about and that was always a positive. As he walked down the streets he had his fingers twisted around the hem of Charlie's coat. Charlie wasn't much for holding hands and Sherlock didn't care too much for physical contact to begin with. However, he wanted something to hold onto, just to know that Charlie was there.

 

Charlie walked with his hands in the pockets of his wool coat and his brown hair was hidden beneath a cap. There was a small smile on his face as he moved along with Sherlock holding onto him. "So, how about a coffee and maybe some soup. Something warm, yeah?"

 

Looking up, Sherlock gave a small nod in agreement.

 

"Lock?" Charlie stopped moving and looked down at his boyfriend before grinning slightly. He put his hands over Sherlock's ears and feigned a shiver. "You're turning to ice out here."

 

Sherlock simply shrugged, tensing a bit but leaning into the warmth of Charlie's gloves. "I didn't really notice," he admitted.

 

"Lucky thing I did then." Charlie gave Sherlock a smile and moved his hands away. He reached up and pulled off his wool hat, letting his shaggy brown hair tumble out and over his eyes. Brushing Sherlock’s curls back, Charlie gentle pulled the hat over his boyfriend’s ears and smiled. “There you go. Now maybe you won’t completely freeze to death.”

 

Looking down, Sherlock let a smile creep over his lips. He wondered how he could keep moments like this. The memory of Charlie’s calloused hands slipping the hat over his head was stored safely away in his mind so he could revisit it whenever he needed. Maybe, if he looked back at it enough, he could figure out how to make things like this last. Or, at the very least, a more frequent event.

 

Leaning forward Charlie gave Sherlock an icy kiss on the nose and reached down and took Sherlock’s hand in his. “Better,” he asked quietly.

 

“Better,” Sherlock agreed and gave Charlie’s hand a small squeeze.

 

There was a fantastic feeling about this that he couldn’t quite describe. Just something about walking down the streets holding his boyfriend’s hand and everything being so calm filled him with absolute bliss. Any remnants of their previous arguments had vanished like the snow hitting the concrete. There were no mentions of Mycroft or Ozzy or any of what had happened before. There was only a comfortable silence and gentle closeness. Charlie was tuning something that Sherlock didn’t immediately recognise and he just closed his eyes, letting Charlie and his memory of the streets lead him while he walked.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard the dinging of a bell overhead. Charlie had led him into a small café, the air warm and inviting. Indie music that Sherlock had never heard was played softly through the speakers. There was something very cosy about it. Sherlock slipped into a corner table, stripping off his coat and gloves but keeping his hat on for now.

 

Charlie followed him, sitting across that table and throwing his coat into the empty chairs. “Two coffees. Black,” he told the small brunette barista, completely interrupting her greeting.

 

Sherlock didn’t interrupt the order. He just sat and watched, waiting until the girl got back behind the bar to speak. “I like sugar in mine,” he finally said.

 

“Lock,” Charlie said with a sigh, “there’s sugar on the table. You can mix it however you like it.” He paused and reached over, softly putting his hand on top of Sherlock’s. “Black. Two sugars. That’s how you take it, right?”

 

“You remembered?”

 

“I remember a lot of things, but I especially remember how you take your coffee. I remember because when we first met, that first day back last January, you were arguing with the girl at the counter. You claimed that you could tell by taste exactly how much sugar was in something and also that she had given you decaf coffee.” He closed his eyes, smiling at the memory. “I remember because that was when I realised that you were different from other people. I realised that I absolutely had to talk to you.”

 

“And you said ‘Hey, kid, shut up,’” Sherlock recalled with a smirk.

 

Charlie laughed. “I did. And you didn’t shut up. You haven’t shut up since, even when you should. I guess that’s what I love about you. You refuse to make the same mistake twice. You have to make it six or eight times, just to make sure. You’re absolutely infuriating and you drive me completely crazy, but at the end of the day it’s all worth it. When I’m next to you and you’re lying so still beside me it’s all completely worth it. All the madness, all the anger…it’s worth it to know that you’re mine.”

 

Never before had Sherlock heard such kind words directed towards him. Even the Not-So-Catholic Catholic girl in New York hadn’t been quite so good with her words. He felt heat rushing to his cheeks and found himself gazing down with a stupid smile on his face. “I’m worth all that,” he asked in a small voice.

 

Charlie’s smile fell and he stared at Sherlock with a look of concern. “Babe, of course you are. You’re worth everything. I could go to prison for most of the things I do with you—to you--, but you’re worth it.”

 

“What do I do that’s worth all that?”

 

“Lock, you don’t have to do anything. I just like you existing and being you near me.”

 

Perhaps it was everything else he had been though. Perhaps it came from being shipped off to different boarding schools or from growing up with an older brother who he felt couldn’t care less about it. Perhaps it was the constant rejection when he tried to make friends with people. Perhaps it was a combination of all of these things that had led his self-worth to drop so low. Sherlock had never considered that he was worth much of anything to anyone. He assumed that he had to prove his worth by being clever or being smarter than everyone else in the room. Now he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be. He didn’t have to be the smart one or the talented one. If he just had to be himself then he had to figure out who he was. What was it he did that Charlie liked? Was it his obnoxious pretentiousness or his terrible taste in music? Neither of those seemed like good qualities for a person to have. Who was he that Charlie liked so much?

 

“Hey, easy, kid, just breathe,” Charlie said, suddenly right by Sherlock’s side. He knelt on the floor, one hand gently on Sherlock’s back.

 

Sherlock was unclear when he had stopped breathing properly. He looked down, realising that his breathing had shallowed and he was making himself faint. Pausing, he took a shaky breath and met Charlie’s eyes. “Who am I?”

 

Charlie stared at him. He seemed to be working out how to reply and then seemed to decide that words were either too much or not enough. He leaned forward, locking Sherlock in a delicate kiss. His hands held loosely to Sherlock’s waist, gently urging him forward and further into the intoxicating kiss. “You’re mine.”

 

“Um…your coffee.”

 

A laugh escaped Charlie’s lips and he looked up at Sherlock, eyes sparkling. “We’ll finish this another time.” He stood back up, thanking the barista and taking his seat. “Hold on. I wanna fix this.” With a smile he took Sherlock’s cup, mixing in the proper amount of sugar.

 

It was a small gesture that meant something huge. It was a little off but not enough for him to decide to completely spoil the mood by mentioning it. He kept quiet, listening to Charlie talk about the weather. It was a mundane conversation to say the least, but Sherlock didn’t mind. When discussing the weather he could easily zone out and nod at the appropriate times and agree when he needed to without having to put too much thought into it. It allowed him to let his mind wander a bit while he just looked at Charlie and pretended to follow everything going on.

 

‘You’re mine.’ He repeated those words over and over in his mind until they felt nearly branded upon his brain. What did it mean? Did it mean that he didn’t have to worry about Charlie abandoning him? Did it mean that Charlie was his? Did this mean that he was no longer his own person? Did he even want to be his own person? For so long he had tried for independence and each time managed to fuck that up in a new and creative way. Was it really so bad to belong to someone else? Especially when it was someone that he actually cared about? It was absolutely terrifying, but in a way there was something comforting about it. Something that made him want to keep trying to keep Charlie happy. He felt frighteningly safe. Distressingly complacent. What was happening? Was he actually growing to a point where he belonged somewhere?

 

Sherlock had never really considered himself to belong anywhere at all. All too often he found himself growing tired of the people around him at almost the same rate they grew tired of him. New York had been the last place he had felt like he was welcome, and even then he wasn’t exactly complacent there. The city was big and busy and no one cared what anyone else did. He could run wild through the streets and climb trees and sneak into seedy clubs with a fake ID he bought in the back of a tattoo parlour and no one even gave him a second glace. But it wasn’t the same as feeling like he belonged with Charlie. In New York he had been free, but he hadn’t belonged anywhere or to anyone. He had been restless and had wanted to do something constantly. Now he felt odd, like there was nothing else out there for him in the world, like this was the best he could do and he had to be complacent with it.

 

He didn’t zone back in until the clanking of dishes brought him back out of his head and into the café. By then his coffee had grown mostly cold and Charlie was staring at him with a mix of amusement and adoration. There was food in front of him that he couldn’t recall ordering and he could only assume that Charlie had ordered for him.

 

“You started thinking pretty loudly,” Charlie told him. “It was quite cute.”

 

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘cute’ to describe anything I do. What is this,” he asked and pointed down at the burger on his plate.

 

“Everything you do is cute, don’t argue with that.” There was something hidden in Charlie’s tone that was a bit hard, something that gave a slight edge to the kind words and told Sherlock is was best not to argue. “And that’s a burger…how do you not know that?”

 

Sherlock poked the meat and frowned. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten actual meat. It wasn’t so much that he had made a conscious decision to switch to a vegetarian diet, it had just happened at some point and he couldn’t recall if he had ever really mentioned it to Charlie or not. They so rarely actually went out for meals and what they got to eat was usually chips or a bag of crisps that Sherlock would nibble on, his dietary preferences had never really seemed important enough for him to mention them. “Oh, I don’t really…”

 

“You need to eat,” Charlie said. He reached across the table and put a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, ignoring that Sherlock still tensed when touched. “You haven’t eaten much the last couple of days. Now, eat.”

 

The burger didn’t look like food. Sherlock couldn’t accurately explain what it looked like in his eyes, but it didn’t look like something he should put in his mouth. Swallowing hard he delicately picked it up and stared at it. The bread was soft, squishing slightly between his thin fingers and the meat was dripping grease down his thumb. It was his stomach turn just to look at it. The smell of the thing made him want to turn away. It reminded him of the food trucks in the city that worked in less than clean conditions and never sold anything he wanted. The Not-Catholic Catholic Girl had assured him that they were perfectly clean and it was more than alright to eat from them, but that had seemed a little far-fetched to him. It wasn’t something he could explain. The feelings that flooded him as he looked down at the burger couldn’t possibly be articulated. Some part of his brain screamed that if he ate this he would die. He wasn’t sure how or why, just that he would. He would either die or vomit and he wanted only one of those things.

 

Charlie had stopped eating and was staring at Sherlock now. The look of amusement had vanished from his face and he just looked mildly annoyed now. “Lock,” he said, his voice a warning.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. He remembered how great he had felt a few moments ago when Charlie had been so nice. He had to keep being good to keep Charlie nice, to keep Charlie from leaving. “Sorry, I just…started thinking again.”

 

“You really need to stop doing that,” Charlie said and went back to eating. “Just eat so we can get out of here.”

 

Trying to calm himself down Sherlock took a bite. As soon as the food was in his mouth he felt like throwing up. It tasted as though he had just bit into a bag of nothing but blood. The meat tasted metallic against his teeth and felt thick on his tongue. He forced himself to swallow and it hurt. Eating didn’t make him feel any better at all. It made him feel worse, sicker, and anxious. It felt so much heavier in his mouth, like it was weighing him down. His gums felt fuzzy and his tongue too large. As it went down his throat he could feel it, like it was too large to be swallowed, like he was going to choke any second. When it hit his stomach he thought he would vomit and die right there. The ‘food’ seemed to sit too heavy there, like it was weighing him down.

 

“See? Eating is good for you.”  


It didn’t feel very good for him, but Sherlock still let the praise soak into him. He had to keep this going; he had to keep belonging somewhere. He tried to convince himself that the second bite would be easier. It wasn’t. If anything it got worse the more he ate. Each bite felt like a new circle of hell and his stomach protested every time he swallowed, screaming for him to stop the torture. Screaming that he was going to be sick at any second and Charlie was going to be very unhappy about that. He stopped and watched Charlie eating and wondered how a person could just eat something and not care. Charlie looked so calm while he ate. He looked almost happy about it and Sherlock couldn’t quite understand why or how. Eating was something that came so easily to other people. Why did he have to make such a big deal about it? Why did he have to make such a big deal about everything?

 

As Charlie finished up he looked over to Sherlock’s half-finished food and let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll go pay. You just…keep staring at that food like it’s going to bite you.”

 

When Charlie stood up Sherlock followed as though he was worried about being left behind. He felt like he had messed up and he wasn’t sure how or how to fix it. He had tried so hard to be like a person was supposed to be, he had tried to be whatever it was that Charlie liked, but he couldn’t be. Instead of trying to repair his latest mistake he pulled on his coat and followed so close to Charlie he was almost stepping on him.

 

Charlie paid and turned back to Sherlock, taking the younger man’s hand in his. “Don’t fret, I’m right here. You’re so clingy sometimes.”

 

Clingy wasn’t a word that Sherlock had ever used to describe himself. Was that what he had become? Clingy? Dependent? Unable to function without this man by his side? It hurt him to think about it. So he didn’t.

 

“Alright, poppet, let’s get your gloves back on before you freeze to death, yeah,” Charlie said after paying, flashing Sherlock a bright smile.

 

Sherlock tried a smile but couldn’t quite manage one so instead he just looked down at his hands as he slipping his gloves on over his fingers. He still felt awful from the food, as though he was suddenly too big for the world. Like he stuck out as some kind of giant, useless mass bumbling down Oxford Street and like everyone was staring at him, wondering how he fit anywhere. The cold air calmed his nausea very little but did at least chill him down a bit, freezing the sweat to his face. He hadn’t realised that he had been sweating so much inside. His ears were ringing and he wanted more than anything to lean against Charlie and go home, but he didn’t. He didn’t even reach for his boyfriend’s hands lest he be clingy.

 

If Sherlock had been paying attention he might have seen the small, unmarked black car parked ahead of them. If he had looked up, even for an instant, he would have noticed and he would have known He would have said something and they would have immediately gone home, probably laughing about everything. But he didn’t look up, he didn’t notice, he kept his head down and his thoughts locked inside of his head.

                                                                                            

“Oi! Charlie!”

 

Charlie and Sherlock both turned around to see a man trotting up the road. Sherlock vaguely recognised him and after looking over the man’s tattered clothes and shaking hands it didn’t take a genius to realise what he was doing trying to talk to Charlie. Sherlock stood back, hoping that Charlie would just wave him on but knowing that his hope was misplaced.

 

Turning around Charlie smiled broadly and walked over, slapping the guy on the shoulder. “Wassit, Mark.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took a good look at Mark. The man was a bit older than Sherlock, his eyes bloodshot and constantly moving about in a paranoid desperation. His hands were shaking and he kept wiping them off on his filthy trousers, certainly not making them any cleaner. It was possible that the drugs were causing all of these reactions, but there was something in the way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot that caused Sherlock to think there was something more to it than that. Mark was afraid. Afraid of what was the question that hung in the air.

 

“Hey, Lock,” Charlie said, trotting back over to Sherlock. “I’ll be right back, okay? I gotta make a quick, uh, business transaction. You wait here, okay?”

 

Reaching out Sherlock grabbed Charlie’s arm and shook his head, his eyes still locked on Mark. “I don’t trust him. He seems nervous.”

 

Charlie just laughed and easily pulled out of Sherlock’s grasp. “He’s selling, of course he’s nervous. You worry too much. Now, wait right here and I’ll be back in five minutes. You can even count if you like.”

 

He would count. He would sit by the side of the building and count. It would relax him a bit as Charlie wandered off with Mark and Sherlock wondered what could be happening past his line of sight. It was possible that this was a setup. Mark had been so nervous that anything could be happening. There could be a dozen officers waiting there, waiting to see drugs switch hands and then pounce to arrest both of them after promising Mark immunity. That was what cops did. They would offer freedom to you if you sold out your friends and then they arrested you.

 

Finally, Sherlock had to stop counting. He had to stop counting and he had to run to an alleyway and stumble into the neighbouring building, hitting his shoulder hard against the rough brick exterior. Doubling over he did exactly what he didn’t want to do and vomited. It was worse coming up, that much was for sure. When he had swallowed it just hurt and made him feel too big, now it burned and punished him for trying to eat. His stomach clenched as it attempted to get rid of every ounce of nutrient that it had inside it. He panted, hoping to whatever god might exist that it was all over. That was stupid. If there was a god then they had someone better to listen to, someone worth listening to. The sickness washed over him again and his skin quivered as another wave pushed out. His chest was absolutely on fire. It felt like his ribs were all breaking at once and crumbling inside of him. For some reason he laughed. As soon as he finished that round of vomiting he laughed and pounded at the wall with his fist. It was a sick and haunting laugh. This was exactly what he deserved. This was what he got for trying to have a decent day. This was his punishment for thinking that he could get away with a fleeting moment of happiness. His skin was prickling like he was covered in needles, his mouth was thick with sick, his head was spending and his temples pounded in time with his quick heartbeat.

 

The gravel crunched with footsteps behind him. There was a moment where he prayed that it was Charlie coming back, but prayers were never answered. The steps were too heavy and clumsy and there was certain stiffness about them that Sherlock instantly recognised. There was no reason to turn around and address the problem.

 

“Afternoon, officer,” he said, pressing his hand flat against the wall and holding his swollen stomach with his other hand. “Something I can help you with today?”

 

The officer walked around to get a good look at Sherlock, tilting his head, curious about him. He was much older, his hair thinning and starting to grey at his hairline. His dark eyes focused in on Sherlock and, in turn, Sherlock focused on him. More importantly, Sherlock stared at the tan line on the officer’s finger and the heavy bags under his eyes.

 

“Something I can help you with, kid,” he asked, looking from Sherlock to the puddle of vomit on the ground. “You okay?”

 

“Yes. This is the best day of my life, in fact. I’m standing in a filthy alley vomiting. It’s wonderful. Please leave now.”

 

“Okay, well, that’s not going to happen. C’mon, let’s get you away from there.”

 

Sherlock jerked away, his heart racing when the officer touched him. Instantly embarrassed by his flightiness, he stood up a little straighter and dusted off his sleeve. “I don’t need any help.”

 

That wasn’t exactly true. Taking a step away Sherlock found himself stumbling and leaned on the wall for support. The smell was starting to get to him and he could feel another episode of vomiting coming on. “I’m fine,” he insisted as he staggered over to the opposite wall and sat down in the trash that littered the alley.

 

Pursing his lips the officer watched Sherlock, raising his brow at the kid’s insistence of independence. With a loud sigh he walked over and sat down next to the kid, staring at the wall. “Clearly you’re not okay. You look like you need a doctor.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Oh, yeah, because vomiting in an alleyway is something people do for fun, I reckon.”

 

Sherlock scoffed and drew one leg up, holding it with his arms and resting his cheek against his knee. “So, what? You’re going to arrest me now?”

 

“Don’t see how that would help the situation. Besides that, I’m off duty. Just on my way to pick up my kid.”

 

“Must be your weekend with her.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes as though all of this was beneath him. “You’re divorced. Probably because you spend all of your time at work, your ex-wife claimed that she never saw you anymore. Mind, this probably came after an affair that she’ll claim was justified because you were also having an affair, just with your work. Trying to get that promotion that never came and probably never will come and even if it does it won’t bring her back. In fact, it’ll make it worse because you’ll be working more and then you’ll have less time to spend with little Judy or whatever her name is. It’ll go from every weekend to once a month to birthdays and then to finally arguing over Christmas. She’ll call someone else ‘daddy’ really soon. Isn’t that right,” he said, punctuating the last three words with an icy stare. Or, at least, he tried to give the officer a glare, it just came off looking tired and drained.

 

The officer blinked and stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out how to respond to all of this and that told Sherlock that he was right. “Well, yeah, but her name is Joe and she’s my son, actually.”

 

Groaning, Sherlock hit his head lightly against the wall. There was always something. “Whatever. I still have your wallet.”

 

“You do not!” The officer stood up and tapped his pockets. More specifically, he patted down his right back pocket and Sherlock grinned. “You didn’t. Of course you didn’t.”

 

Sherlock just smiled and reached into his own pocket. “Got your badge though, Officer Lestrade,” he said before putting the badge back in his pocket.

 

“Well, I’ll need that back.”

 

“Then you should really be more careful with it.”

 

Lestrade sighed again and crossed his arms, clearly trying to figure out what to do about Sherlock. It was actually impressive. By this point Sherlock had usually found himself in a pair of handcuffs. “The only thing I could arrest you for is being a runaway. You’re, what, fourteen?”

 

Now that was offensive and Sherlock’s face showed that. Fourteen? Not even old enough to drive or drink? It was an insult. When he had been fourteen he hadn’t been that perceptive. Fourteen year old Sherlock might have gotten the divorce right, but not the root cause of the problem or the lack of promotions. Fourteen was ridiculous. “I’m sixteen. Wait. No. Seventeen.” Mycroft had reminded him of that. At some point he had turned seventeen but he couldn’t remember when.

 

“Seventeen,” Lestrade repeated, closing his eyes and leaning back. He clearly wasn’t in any real hurry to get to his kid, probably because he would have to face his ex-wife, which told Sherlock the problems actually went deeper than he had originally assumed. “You know, I did a lot of stupid things when I was seventeen.”

 

Wow, they were already at this point. They were already reaching the point of a lecture on the stupidity of youth with the uplifting anthem of ‘I changed and so can you!’. It was more insulting than being called fourteen. It was a trite and boring speech that Sherlock had heard from more than one stranger.

 

“You been in a fight,” Lestrade suddenly asked, cutting the lecture off.

 

“What?”

 

Lestrade pointed to the spot just below his eye to mirror Sherlock’s bruise. “You look like someone got ya pretty good right there. Got in a few fights when I was younger, took a couple of blows to the face.”

 

“Oh…yeah….” Sherlock stared up at the skyline and rubbed his cheek. It still hurt and he was reminded of why he and Charlie had gone out in the first place. Charlie was trying to make everything up to Sherlock and had inadvertently made Sherlock sick. It wasn’t Charlie’s fault, Sherlock told himself, he was just trying to do something good and right.

 

For a moment Lestrade was silent, taking in Sherlock’s response as though it meant something to him. “Like I said, I made a lot of mistakes when I was seventeen. A lot of wrong bloody turns. Ruined my chances of playing for Arsenal trying to show off. Did a backflip off a table and landed on a wet spot. Completely slid out and had to be in a cast for months. Just one of the stupid things we do as kids.”

 

Sherlock groaned loudly. Here was the speech, the terrible and boring speech that he wanted to skip past completely. “Yes, yes, yes, you went to school and made a fatal error trying to, I don’t know, probably impress a girl and tore your ACL, which is why you still have a bad knee, and you weren’t going to play for Arsenal. You just say that so you can justify all the time you wasted in University.”

 

To his complete surprise, Lestrade laughed. “Well, first of all, I could’ve plated for Arsenal. Secondly, she wasn’t impressed. Third, I’m guessing you didn’t go to university?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because the idea of four more years of schooling frankly made me want to take an ice pick to my eye.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, well, you seem pretty smart. Guessing you didn’t like school very much. People who are smart very rarely like school.”

 

“By that logic I’m guessing you loved it,” he snapped. He wanted to go home and wash his mouth out and lay down to listen to terrible music while Charlie talked beside him. He wanted to be warm at home and not freezing in an alleyway with a guy who pretended to care.

 

“Yeah, whatever you say, kid. I’m still smarter than you.”

 

“Are not.”

 

“I’m not sitting in an alleyway, freezing to death and waiting for my next fix, am I,” Lestrade asked pointedly.

 

For once Sherlock didn’t have a proper comeback. He just huffed and pouted at the wall, trying to figure out what to say to prove Lestrade wrong. Technically that was what he was doing, but this cop didn’t need to know that. “I’m waiting on someone. My boyfriend,” he added with a fixed stare at Lestrade, thinking perhaps that would cause the officer to quit being so chummy.

 

It worked to a certain extent. Lestrade didn’t get up and move away or suddenly decide that Sherlock needed to be arrested for something, Instead he just looked somewhat concerned and looked away. “You think you’re clever, right? You think that most things are too common for you, yeah? That’s how you act. Like you’re smarter than people, like you can read people and that makes you so much more clever?”

 

“You don’t know me.”

 

“No, but I know people like you.”

 

“People aren’t like me.” Most people could eat a meal or be touched or talk without getting obnoxious. Most people weren’t so damn obsessive over things. Most people could live their lives without being in constant pain, without feeling like they were so separated from humanity that they were an entirely new creature all together. Most people…well, most people could learn to live with the pain and find ways to be social. Most people weren’t him.

 

“And yet you’re in the same situation so many kids your age wind up in. A common situation. One I’ve seen a hundred times over. Bit of an insult, isn’t it?”

 

“I’m still waiting on you to tell me what situation I’m in so I can laugh at how incredibly wrong and stupid you are. Please, go on, I could really do with a good laugh right now.”

 

Lestrade resisted the urge to roll his eyes and just went on. “You’re in a bad situation. Like I said, we all do stupid things when we’re seventeen. I lost my chance to play for Arsenal and you, like so many kids your age, went out and got hooked on drugs, and it looks like you’ve gotten yourself into an abusive relationship. And,” he held up a hand, prematurely stopping Sherlock from arguing, “now you’re going to argue with me. You’re going to say that you’re not an addict, you’re a casual user to takes proper doses because you’re _so_ smart that you know _exactly_ how much you can handle and how much you need to take whatever pain you’re feeling away. But, the way you shake says that you’re lying and the vomiting doesn’t help your story either. You’re then going to tell me that you’re not in an abusive relationship and that your boyfriend loves you dearly and is a wonderful person, but the bruises on your face tells a different story. So, now if you’ve got an argument I would love to hear it.”

 

It took Sherlock a couple of seconds to work out his argument, and he hated that he didn’t have something prepared for this. It wasn’t that he believed what Lestrade was saying, it was that he needed to convince him it was wrong. Convincing idiots that they’re wrong is never an easy thing to do. “First of all, you could _not_ have played for Arsenal.” He only vaguely knew what Arsenal was from Charlie yelling at the radio, but he was insistent on crushing that idea. “Secondly, you’re not nearly as good at reading people as I am, so stop trying. Third, I _do_ know exactly how much I can handle because if I had gone to University I would have majored in chemistry. I know how drugs work and I know my body better than anyone. Perhaps because you don’t know how your own system works you can’t believe that, but I know and that’s why I’m able to be a casual user. Fourth, you know absolutely nothing about me or about Charlie. Now, you live with me and tell me how easy I am to deal with and then tell me if our relationship can be considered abuse or necessary.” He smirked and crossed his arms over his knee.

 

Lestrade didn’t even seem fazed by this response. If anything he looked like he was expecting it which wiped the smirk right off Sherlock’s face. ”I’ll pass on living with you. Look, I’ve gotta go pick up my kid, I’m already running late.”

 

Sherlock suspected Lestrade was often running late to pick up his son. He certainly didn’t seem too concerned about it. When the officer reached into his pocket Sherlock sighed and put his wrists together, managing to stand. If he was going to get arrested he was going to pretend to make it easy. He could get out of handcuffs, he wasn’t worried about that.

 

Instead of handcuffing him Lestrade rose to his feet, pulled out a card and handed it over to Sherlock. He stood beside Sherlock and put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, I’m not telling you what to do here. I’m not your father, thank God. But, I didn’t become an officer to arrest sad kids vomiting in dingy alleys. I wanted to help people; I still want to help people. So, you need anything you’ve got my number. Give me a call if something were to happen, kid. I’ll be there.”

 

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Sherlock said as he turned the card over in his hands. It had the department number on it as well as Lestrade’s personal number written in pen at the bottom. “I’m fine.”

 

Lestrade gave Sherlock’s shoulder a firm squeeze, something that came off strangely reassuring. “I know you believe that. But if something were to happen, you’ve got that now. If you get in a bad spot, well, you got somebody on your side.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why would you be on my side?”

 

“Reckon somebody ought to be. Be safe, kid.”

 

Sherlock blinked, staring after the officer. It was somehow the best and worst experience he’d ever had with a cop. On the plus side he wasn’t in the back of a cop car, no one had called his brother, and he wasn’t going to jail. However, he felt oddly empty and sick. It wasn’t the kind of sick he’d felt before where he was going to vomit, but it was a weird kind of sick where he wanted to go home but not home. He wanted to not be there anymore. He wanted…something. He wanted to be somewhere but he couldn’t figure out where that was. His stomach felt empty in an unpleasant sort of way. It felt like there was something missing from him that he was longing for that he would never be able to find. The card felt heavy in his hand and it seemed almost like when Lestrade had handed him that card he took something from him, a sense of comfort he hadn’t even known he’d had. It felt like everything he had had before was gone and he was clinging to something that wasn’t real anymore. He hated that cop more than he had ever hated any cop he’d ever met before and he wasn’t sure why.

 

“Hey, you alright?”

 

Jerking to attention Sherlock looked over and spied Charlie standing beside him, a look of concern etched on his face. The feeling of longing should have dissipated when he saw his boyfriend’s face, but it didn’t. It seemed to grow worse. “Yeah, fine,” Sherlock said, sticking the card in his pocket. “Have fun?”

 

Charlie scoffed and smiled up to the sky. “It certainly was an interesting experience,” he said, clearly trying to be cryptic. “C’mon, we should get home. I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing and I kind of need a shower.”

 

Sherlock nodded and started to walk with Charlie before deciding to make him a little happier. “Oh, hey, I got you something I think you might like.” Reaching into his coat pocket he pulled out both the badge and Lestrade’s wallet. “Nicked a cop earlier. Thought you might enjoy that.”

 

As he took the items Charlie’s face absolutely lit up. He turned the badge over in his hands several times. “Officer Gregory Lestrade. Poor sap, didn’t even see it coming. You’re brilliant, Lock. Absolutely brilliant.” He moved onto taking the cash from the wallet before dumping it on the side of the street, talking excitedly about how wonderful it was to finally stick it to a cop good and proper.

 

The longing feeling faded slightly and Sherlock beamed at the praise. Charlie was impressed with him and his token. There was nothing he loved more than hearing how brilliant Charlie thought it was, it seemed to make up for his earlier mistakes at the café. Lestrade had forgotten about the badge and hadn’t even realised when Sherlock actually did take his wallet. Sure, he would figure it out within a few hours, but by then it would be his problem and Sherlock wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout of that. Most likely he would never see that officer again, provided he was very lucky. Of course, as he thought this, Sherlock wondered when he had been ever been lucky and began to feel the creeping sickness returning.


	4. Of OD's and Adventures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update...again. Here are the triggers for this chapter
> 
> Character death  
> Hallucinations  
> Drugs use  
> Prostitution  
> Physical abuse  
> Emotional Abuse

The more people that were around the worse it was. Sherlock laid on a mattress listening to them all. Well, it wasn’t exactly a mattress anymore. It was more like a place slightly elevated from the floor with worn down cushioning that barely protected him from the springs prodding painfully into his sides. But, he had fought for it and now it was his and he was king of this mound of trash. Someone in the freezing room kept muttering about how he couldn’t stand this anymore, though it was completely unclear what it was that he couldn’t stand. A girl was on the floor, finding codes in the burn marks left by candles that had been forgotten about on the wooden surface.

 

The smell of the place was the worst. It was possible that there were no functioning toilets in the abandoned factory, or no one cared enough to use them. Forgotten food was littered around the room, mixing with the ammonic scent of urine and making the air in the room heavy with stench. The floor was sticky and air whistled through the broken windows. At least Sherlock had his mattress to keep him off the floor and Charlie’s arm around him to keep him warm.

 

His eyelids felt heavy and his arm dangled limp off the mattress, his nails peeling at the scratched varnish so he would know where he had been. If he stumbled out of here and died in the streets someone could use the varnish to figure out where he had been, everything he had done. He wasn’t sure why he wanted anyone to know, but it was all that was going through his mind. Take something with you, leave something behind, don’t forget this place, for some reason it’s very important.

 

“You don’t care about this place, there’s nothing here that’s yours, there’s no reason for you to want to remember it. So, what are you trying to do?”

 

Sherlock blinked and found the factory quite still. The wind had silenced and he wasn’t shaking as he had been before. The smoke from the candles still lingered in the air as though everyone was trying to quickly make it look empty. Bodies still littered the floor, not asleep but lying very still. Turning his gaze up he watched Mycroft take a chair from the corner, dusting it off and looking down at it with his face twisted in disgust. He turned around, dragging a coat off a girl and throwing it onto the seat before gingerly sitting down.

 

“What are you trying to leave behind here, little brother?”

 

Ignoring the penetrating graze Sherlock rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He couldn’t feel Charlie beside him anymore. “You’re not real.”

 

“I assure you that I’m quite real,” Mycroft told him, tapping his umbrella against the floor and leaning forward on it. “Am I here presently in this…room? No, not at all. In fact I’m most likely sitting in my office working, doing things you couldn’t possibly understand. However, I am real, but I’m not here.”

 

“I’m hallucinating,” Sherlock groaned, rubbing at his tired eyes with the heel of his hands. “Why am I hallucinating?”

 

Clearing his throat Mycroft pulled a list from his jacket pocket. “It could be from the mix of Diamorphine, Hydrocodone, and Oxycodone you’ve decided to take.”

 

Again, Sherlock could only groan at his own mind. “Heroin, Vicodin, and OxyContin. Honestly, you’re my hallucination, you don’t have to be so pretentious.”

 

“I believe I’m pretentious because I’m your hallucination, but that’s beside the point.”

 

“Then pray do tell what is the point? Because if you’re not going to get to it soon I would prefer it if you would just go away and leave me to enjoy this. Or, at the very least, turn into someone that’s interesting to see. Or literally anyone else. I can’t stand you outside of my head I don’t need you inside.”

 

Mycroft let out a frustrated sigh and moved away from the chair, kneeling on the filthy floor beside Sherlock. “Because you’re not dead.”  


“Good to know. Please leave now.”

 

“You’re not dead because you’re dying. You knew this was going to happen the moment that needle touched your vein. That was not the usual dosage and that was not the type of diamorphine you’re accustomed to. Certainly not what you would get from your friend at the bakery. Now, it’s possible that you’ll go over and come round in a few hours, but you’re cyanotic right now, you can see your nail beds. So, let us, for now, assume that you’re dying.”

 

Dying. Sherlock knew that. Of course he knew that, this was all just happening inside of his head. The only question now was what to do about it. “I don’t care,” he said and continued to stare at the ceiling. “If I’m dying then I’m dying. I don’t care and I’m not afraid of death.”

 

As he spoke Mycroft’s hand went to his wrist, checking his pulse. “Of course you’re not scared, you’re on heroin. You wouldn’t be scared you probably feel euphoric about the whole ordeal. However, you are lying. You clearly care. If you didn’t care then I wouldn’t be here. Or, I would be here but only to provide some form of comic relief to you. Judging by the fact that your brain has decided not to make any pointed jokes about my weight I can safely assume that we both know you care about living.”

 

Perhaps he did care a little bit about making it out of this alive. He didn’t want to die in an abandoned factory surrounded by the smell of piss and vomit. He wanted to leave more of a mark than a few scratches on the floor. “Are you angry with me,” he asked, though he wasn’t sure where the question came from.

 

“I have been angry with you for quite some time. I am, in fact, furious with you. And this is me talking as your brother, not me talking as you. However, I can’t let you die. Mummy would be devastated and, frankly, I can’t deal with tears.”

 

Sherlock shut his eyes and took a deep breath, not wanting to focus on the answer to his question. “Then what do I do?”

 

“There’s nothing to be done except wait. We can hope that someone called an ambulance, but knowing the types of people you associate yourself with I can assume that hope is completely moot. We can wait and keep your mind going.”

 

“With what, exactly? A puzzle? I’m really not in the mood for a puzzle at the moment.” Mostly he just wanted to rest. Close his eyes and fall into a nice, long sleep.

 

Mycroft roughly grabbed his wrist and pulled him upright, bringing him out of his near sleep state. “Don’t sleep, Sherlock. Honestly, I thought you had some sense to you. Come along now, we’ve got things to see.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be pulled along. Mycroft was right. Well, technically, Sherlock was right via his hallucination. He couldn’t sleep. If he went to sleep and let his mind shut down then it would all be over. If he allowed himself to go to sleep the only mark left would be the ones on the floor. No one would remember him and he would just be another junkie for the coroner to find in the morning.

 

As they stepped out of the factory Sherlock found himself walking through a cemetery. It seemed a little dramatic that in his mind the cemetery was darkened, the moon providing the only light to see the path before him. He kept pace with his brother as they wove their way around stones and mausoleums. That was what he wanted when he died; his body placed to rest inside one of the large mausoleums to stand out against the small stones. It wouldn’t mean anything. The size of the grave didn’t matter to the person buried there, but it did matter to the people who passed by and wondered what someone did in life to be worthy of such a grave.

 

They didn’t stop in front of a mausoleum. Rather, they paused in front of a perfectly average looking stone, forth down in an average row, in just an average plot. Sherlock didn’t need to read the stone to know it was his name engraved upon it, his entire life represented by a dash between his date of birth and date of death.

 

“Why are we here,” he asked, gazing at the stone with a look of complete boredom on his face. “I assumed you wanted to give me a puzzle to solve. This isn’t a puzzle, this is an end. This is everyone’s end.”

 

“This is your end,” Mycroft clarified.  “According to the date on this headstone you died today, which is entirely possible. I thought, perhaps, we could spend this time walking through each possible scenario of your life. Now, for most people death is the last thing they want to visit. It’s the last thing they want, it’s what would end their life. But, then there’s you. We have to ask ourselves if your life is one that’s worth saving. Does your life matter or is this the best option for you? Is death the only choice you have left? Who would be there to miss you? Charlie? You think he cares? Me? I gave up on you a long time ago. Perhaps the world would be a better place without Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Hadn’t he already decided that he wanted to live? Wasn’t this supposed to be helping to keep him alive? If death was his best choice then why the hell was he fighting so hard to stay alive? Why was he continuing down this path if it led to his inevitable and perfectly uneventful death?

 

“But, you and I both know that isn’t entirely true. Mostly I just wanted to get that out of the way, cut the dramatics out and keep us from having a Christmas Carol ending. Now we can move right along.”

 

Sherlock took a last look at the headstone. His mind was still swarming with thoughts about what the world would be like without him, but that was a hallucination for another overdose. Shaking his head he followed his brother up the path.

 

As they crested the hill the scenery changed. The moon was replaced with a sterile white light; the familiar buzzing of florescent lighting filled his ears and threatened to drive him completely mad. Mycroft’s shoes made a horrific and rhythmic tapping against the linoleum flooring. Though he had never had the misfortune of being in this particular place, Sherlock knew exactly where he was.

 

“This, brother mine, is a rehab facility. The walls are all this eggshell white colour, there’s little to do, and you can’t go outside. It’s quite boring and—“

 

“I know,” Sherlock said, annoyed. “You’re me, remember? You’re just telling me things I already know. Everything you say I’ve already thought of. There’s nothing you can say I haven’t already considered.”

 

Turning, Mycroft looked Sherlock directly in the eyes. “A goat’s skull with a single pineapple delicately placed inside of it.”

 

Sherlock paused, blinking. “I see…carry on with your narration then.”

 

Following Mycroft over to a room they stepped inside. The sickly boy in the bed bore some resemblance to Sherlock, but there were notable differences. He was still, his eyes glazed over and staring at the ceiling and his arms limp at his sides. All of the fight was gone from him and there was no fire in his eyes.

 

“That’s you after six weeks of rehab. For your own benefit I skipped the bouts of vomiting, diarrhoea, and the anguished cries of wanting someone to put a bullet in your brain. It’s so…average, isn’t it? If I’m not mistaken I believe we’re getting to the root cause of your problems and fears. One of the first questions you asked me was—“

 

Sherlock waved his hand indifferently, cutting his hallucination off. “Yes, yes, let’s skip all of this. It’s dull and tedious and I clearly don’t have any desire to be in a place like this. Can we move alone, please?”

 

Mycroft shrugged and walked out of the room and into a similar corridor. However, Sherlock recognised this place. He felt his chest tighten as they walked down the corridors, his breathing hitched and he nervously toyed with his hands. This was a place he had left not too long ago, but he could still smell the familiar stench of despair and bleach. It wasn’t a place anyone ever wanted to find themselves. It claimed to be a place of healing but it was a place to produce children on so much medication they couldn’t think. Children who fell asleep in the middle of sentences. It didn’t make people feel better, it made them feel nothing. It took everything they knew and everything they felt and shut it away where they couldn’t get to it if they tried.

 

“Yes, you’re remembering,” Mycroft said, gazing into one of the rooms. “You remember being here at, what was it? Twelve? Yes, I believe you were twelve when mother decided you needed to be here, when she had reached her breaking point with you. You wouldn’t eat, you refused to sleep, you refused to do anything but stare at a mound of earth because you had begun to understand that death shall take us all eventually and you thought you could trick death by beating it to the punch. You thought—“

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, covered his hands with his head. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t want to be surrounded by these sights and sounds and have to remember things he had long ago locked away, things he thought he had killed with his lifestyle.

 

“It’s alright. Sherlock, it’s alright. You’re not there. You got out, you got out and if we explore what else there is then maybe we can find a way to keep you from having to go back.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head, breathing hard and clinging to himself. “No. You’ve shown me death, rehab, and now this. There isn’t anything out there for me, there isn’t a good situation. There’s only this and it’s terrible and god knows I hated myself enough before you went and reminded me of all of this. God knows I wanted to die before this moment, but if this is all there is then I’m done. I should just lay down and take the first option because nothing is going to get better! You’ve proven that!”

 

Mycroft was kneeling beside him, wrestling Sherlock’s arms away from his head. “Shh, it’s alright,” he assured his little brother, holding tight to his arms. “You’re not there. You won’t go back. I won’t let you. Look around, where are you now?”

 

Shaking and panting Sherlock forced his eyes open and took in his surroundings. He was kneeling on soft, white carpeting stained with muddy tracks. Around him were shelves filled with leather bound books and two encyclopaedia sets. The grandfather clock beside him didn’t tick anymore and he felt a strange sense of home about the place. He didn’t want to equate it with being home, but it was the closest thing he had then. “Your house,” he muttered, lowering his head. “Your house isn’t an option.”

 

“It’s not an option either one of us desires. It’s far from the healthiest option for you, but it is an option.”

 

Sherlock could see an image of himself lying on the sofa, wrapped up in the blue blanket, the blanket covered in penguins. It was a ridiculous sort of comfort item from his childhood and he tried to change the vision but he couldn’t. He was there in the penguin blanket, a cup of tea sitting on a coaster on the coffee table, and Mycroft settled down in a chair watching him closely.  It was a pathetic scene to Sherlock’s eyes and he shook his head, trying to get rid of it but, again, he couldn’t. “You hate me.”

 

“Yes, however you’re still my younger brother. While that may not mean very much it does mean that I’m the one person who is capable of outsmarting you and taking care of you. I’ve spent most of my life doing that and I’m very good at it.”

 

Sherlock didn’t want it to come to this. He didn’t want to spend his days back in Mycroft’s house, watching the time move and trying to figure out how to occupy his life. He didn’t want someone keeping track of him or making him eat when he didn’t want to or making him sleep when he wasn’t tired. Noticing the similarities of all of these situations he closed his eyes and took a breath. “You want me to stop taking the medicine, don’t you?”

 

“Medicine? You mean drugs? Yes, that would appear to be the common theme trending here. Let’s see, we’ve reviewed your options for getting off of them, haven’t we? We’ve been dramatic and looked at your death, we’ve been sensible and seen rehab, we’ve been terrified and looked into the psychiatric hospital, and we’ve been _comforting_ ,” he said the word as though it disgusted him, “and seen my home. Now then-“

 

“Let’s see what happens if you don’t get off drugs.”

 

Opening his eyes Sherlock found himself staring up at Lestrade, which didn’t make any sense to him at all. “Oh god, you’re here now too?! Honestly, I met you once, I can’t have a good enough view of you to possibly be imagining you.”

 

“You know I’m a police officer of reasonable intelligence,” he guessed, his voice hopeful. His hope was crushed by the look on both the Holmes boy’s faces. “Alright, not as intelligent as you, I reckon.”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock and Mycroft said in unison before turning to glare at each other.

 

Sherlock shook his head and let out a groan. “All I know is what I learned from stealing your wallet and your badge.”

 

“Oh please, I let you have my badge. Thought it’d give you something you something to be proud of.”

 

“I couldn’t possibly know that,” Sherlock argued.

 

Lestrade just shrugged. “Anyway, let’s get on with it.”

 

The scene changed dramatically and Sherlock found himself in a familiar seat. He was in the back of a police car while Mycroft and Lestrade sat up front. This was almost as dull as the rehab scenario. Closing his eyes he let the scene change to the inside of a jail cell. The car wasn’t important, this was what Lestrade was trying to show him in the first place, right?

 

Just like with the car, Sherlock was on one side while his brother and Lestrade were on the other. There wasn’t a lot of room in the cell and Sherlock stood quietly, hands behind his back, waiting for the narration he knew was coming.

 

For a moment Lestrade just stared at him before looking to Mycroft. “Oh, am I supposed to? Right, the explanation.  Alright, kid, you know where you’re at. Or, I hope you’re smart enough to figure it out. This could be your new home. There’s your cot, your toilet, your sink, and that guy,” he said, motioning to a shadowed figure in the corner, “is your roommate. This isn’t some nice place where big brother can pay to get you your own room. This is jail. This is what happens when you get picked up for possession or worse.”

 

“Oh, there’s a worse,” Sherlock asked and walked forward, holding onto the bars of the cell with his hands. “I’m certain that you’re going to show me the worse, but let’s stay here for just a moment. First of all, I’m far too smart to get caught by the police for anything, much less for drugs. Let’s be reasonable here, there’s no possible reason that I would get put into prison. Even if I didn’t outsmart you I could outrun you.”

 

Mycroft let out a small laugh before looking back at his brother’s hurt expression. Clearing his throat he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it he put it beside him, letting it hang in the air and showing Sherlock a chart he had made. “This,” he explained, pointing over the line graph, “shows your decline in your ability to deduce information. You were completely blind to the fact that the officer here was about to go on vacation and then decided against it. You ignored the new woman he’s been seeing that he’ll soon break up with. You’re abilities to see and understand things are failing. I’m afraid that, at this rate, you’re no smarter than the average person.”

 

It felt like a punch to the gut. He had to be smarter than most people, being smart was all he had. “If you’re telling me this then I noticed.”

 

“You saw but you did not observe,” Mycroft corrected. “It’s in your brain, you just can’t access it. Now, imagine what you’re missing about Charlie.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t thought about that. What was he missing about Charlie? What hadn’t he seen? There could be any number of things happening right under his nose and he would be completely blind to it. For all he knew Charlie could hate him and he wouldn’t even know it. Charlie could want him to go away and Sherlock would be oblivious.

 

“Speaking of Charlie,” Lestrade said as he opened the cell door. “Why don’t we see what happens if you stay with him instead of going to jail or anywhere your brother mentioned?”

 

This should be a fun trip, Sherlock though dejectedly as he followed Lestrade and Mycroft down out of the precinct. They stepped through a door and into a dimly lit room that smelled of whiskey and sweat. A small lamp on the bedside table provided the only light in the room, giving everything an exaggerated shadow. The sounds of someone moaning with pleasure filled the air, mixing with someone clearly trying their best to imitate the sounds. Sherlock cringed as he realised it was his own voice doing the poor acting, but he didn’t immediately recognise the person on top of him. He must have seen them before somewhere, his brain wasn’t capable of imagining and entirely new person.

 

He looked back to the grim expression on Lestrade’s face. “I’m waiting for you to narrate now.”

 

Lestrade just shrugged, eyes downcast. “You’re a rent boy, kid. See, here’s the problem: You-“

 

“Don’t provide anything,” Charlie said, coming up from behind him. His breath was hot on Sherlock’s ear as he spoke, weaving together with the sounds of the room to create a distressingly dangerous tone. “Did you think the free ride would last forever, Lock? Eventually I’m going to need you to do something, to support us. I can’t be out there doing all of the work all the time. Sometimes you’ve got to get fucked. And let’s be honest, you’re a lousy lay.” He moved around, roughly grabbing Sherlock’s cheeks so tight it made his lips stick out. “But you’re pretty. And pretty sells, pet.” He threw Sherlock backwards, sending the boy cascading across the ground.

 

Sherlock panted, his eyes looking from Lestrade to Mycroft, terrified. He looked up for either one of them to help but they both turned away from him. Before he could say anything another blow came. Charlie’s hand collided with his cheek, sending him onto his back.

 

“This is what happens, Lock. This is what happens when you sit in my home and use my dope and don’t do anything but sit there and talk about shit no one cares about. Get it? This is where I want you to be. This is where you’re going to be. Get it?” Gently he put a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “Because you love me,” he said softly. “And I love you. And if we love each other then we have to provide. Even if that means sometimes it hurts.”

 

Before another hit could come Sherlock held his hands up to protect his face. “Stop,” he said firmly. The scene around him froze. “This isn’t what I want.”

 

Mycroft and Lestrade turned back and faced him. Charlie stopped and stood up, looking down at him. His parents were there, Ozzy and his mother too. In fact, everyone he had ever seen, every person he had ever spoken to suddenly surrounded him. “Then what do you want,” they all asked in unison, their voices slightly off to create an echo that filled his head.

 

The scenes Mycroft and Lestrade had described appeared before him like pictures in a scrapbook. He swiped them away. Away with every option they had given him, away with every future they had laid out for him to choose from. There had to be another choice, there had to be another way to live, there had to be something. He could almost see it. The image was tiny and he put his hands on it and widened it until it filled the whole room, until it took them away from the motel and into a flat. A cosy flat. He was there and he could hear someone else milling about but couldn’t quite see who it was. Perhaps Charlie? Perhaps the future he wanted involved them being comfortable and away from the streets? Doing something, anything, to leave mark.

 

He moved towards the door where he could hear someone typing at a keyboard. Before he reached the door handle air flooded his lungs and the world started to dissolve around him. He tried to fight it, tried to stay, tried to see what exactly it was that he wanted, but it was too late. His chest was burning with the quick intake of air and the world was fading to white, everything becoming blurred.

 

The flat was gone. Everything in his head was gone and he was back in the factory, his chest burning and his stomach turning. All the pain he had blocked out returned with striking force. His back protested sitting up but his stomach demanded he double over in order to not immediately vomit. Blood pulsed in his ears and the air was so cold it made his throat feel raw and threatened to rupture.

 

“Relax, Sherlock, you’re alive.”

 

Sherlock blinked, still panting and looked up. Mycroft. The real one this time. He wasn’t a hallucination and Sherlock was sure of that. Not just because of the pain, but he had never seen his brother with that expression before. He wasn’t even sure how to describe it. Mycroft didn’t look smug and not-smug was definitely a new emotion for him.

 

“Why the _fuck_ did you do that,” Sherlock demanded, drawing his leg up and looking around the factory, horrified. It was entirely empty. The candles had burned out long ago and people had run off in such a hurry that they had forgotten their bags and coats behind. Sherlock realised fairly quickly that they were alone. Charlie wasn’t there to help him out of this and get him away. Everyone had left him.

 

“Because you were dying,” Mycroft said in a calm voice as he took off his coat, putting it around Sherlock’ shoulders.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “No, you idiot. I was almost there!”

 

“Almost where? Your grave? Because I assure you that’s where you were headed.”

 

“Yes, yes, yes. Christmas Carol, pineapple in a goat’s skull, _I know!”_

Mycroft stared at him for a moment and just blinked before looking at the syringe in his hands. “Oh, you’re still high. I thought the Narcan was supposed to knock the heroin out of your system. I gave you the lowest recommended dosage. I probably should have gone higher.”

 

“I’m not…I…” Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes, trying to get back in his head but he couldn’t figure it out. “Narcan has a half-life of up to two hours, you’re going to want to take me to hospital or something to make sure the OD doesn’t return. Don’t.” He knew he had between half an hour and two hours to get Mycroft away from him so he could get back in his head and figure out what it was he wanted.

 

“Don’t? Oh, yes, what a compelling argument you’ve presented here. Don’t. I’ll certainly take that into consideration,” Mycroft said dryly. “Can you stand up?”

 

Sherlock nodded though he wasn’t entirely confident in his legs at the moment. “And if I can stand it means I can outrun you so I would suggest you listen for a moment. You’re only here because otherwise our mother would be somehow disappointed in you. So, allow me to be very clear: I don’t care about her and I don’t care about you. I’m not going to die but if I did it wouldn’t be on your head. Now, go away.”

 

Mycroft sighed and reached out to take Sherlock’s wrist, checking his pulse. “Again, such a compelling argument. You don’t care about anything and therefore I shouldn’t care. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. It would be easier for all of us if it did. Now, if you can stand—“

 

Having had quite enough of this Sherlock jerked his arm back and knocked Mycroft’s coat to the floor. “Can you stop?”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Pretending that you care. You hate me and you have since we were kids. You don’t want to be here, I don’t want you here, just do us both a favour and kindly fuck off so I can go back and figure this out!”

 

Mycroft didn’t even flinch. Instead he stood up and for a moment Sherlock thought he was going to be granted his request. “If you could move then you would have by now. You would be halfway across London if you were able to.”

 

“If you try to take me anywhere I’ll bite you and I’ll—“ The threat was cut short. Sherlock turned his head, suddenly and violently vomiting onto the filthy floor. There was no build up to it, it just happened. As though all the poison was trying to expel itself from his body and it was taking with it all of the fight he had. His body was shaking and he felt cold. Squeezing his eyes shut tight Sherlock bit back a whimper as he hugged his arms around his shoulders. He had been through withdrawal before, he knew what pain was. But this was different. This felt like his entire body rejecting the world, like he was somehow trying to escape himself.

 

He felt so completely useless and weak. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t run, he couldn’t even spit insults at his brother. All he could do in that moment was sit on the floor in pain and pray that he wouldn’t vomit again. There was nothing he could do and he felt like he was nothing. He didn’t even fight back as Mycroft helped him to his feet and easily lifted him off the ground as though he was nothing. He felt like a child. Like a stupid child that couldn’t fight back, that knew nothing, that was nothing more than a pointless waste of space. Tears pricked his eyes and he took a shaking breath. If ever there was a time to vomit it would be while Mycroft was carrying him, but Sherlock couldn’t control his body. He couldn’t make himself get sick on his brother. He couldn’t do anything.

 

The cool night air touched his face and he shook, his teeth chattering painfully. Everything hurt. It was worse than when he had initially woken up. It was as though he could suddenly feel every single part of his body and every part was in a different kind of pain. It would have been so much easier if he could just pass out from the pain.

 

“It’s alright,” Mycroft assured him. “Here we go, just lay down here. There you go.”

 

Sherlock found himself curled up in the back of a car. It wasn’t Mycroft’s car, that much he knew. Definitely a rental probably driven by whatever new, poor person had been given the job of Mycroft’s assistant. It smelled of cleaned leather and garden scented air freshener. The smell made Sherlock’s stomach turn. Just as he was taking in all the details of the car he found himself being wiggled into a sitting position.

 

“Drink,” Mycroft said, offering Sherlock a bottle of water.

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

“You’re dehydrated.”

 

“Good. Maybe I’ll pass out and I won’t have to deal with this anymore.”

 

Mycroft sighed, brushing back Sherlock’s curls. “You’re going to pass out anyway. You might as well try to get some water in you before you do.”

 

If Sherlock didn’t know any better he would swear that Mycroft was worried. He shook that thought away because it was ridiculous. “If you take me to hospital then I’ll never forgive you,” he snapped, taking in a deep breath.

 

“I’m sure. You’ve said thirty nine-no-forty-two times that you’ll never forgive me.”

 

“And I have never forgiven you.”

 

“Shame.” Mycroft paused and looked down at the bottle of water before looking back to Sherlock. “We’re surrounded by salt water,” he said, his voice softening.

 

“What?”

 

“Yes, and this is the only fresh water on the ship. Now, I could easily give this to the crew, god knows they need it. However, I think that it would be better if the Captain had the last water.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying his hardest not to look even the least bit intrigued by this. It was stupid and childish and just a ploy. Albeit, a strange ploy for Mycroft to pull, but Sherlock wasn’t falling for it. “I’m not a child.”

 

Mycroft merely smiled. “Who knows how long it might be until we discover another source?”

 

“We can boil water,” Sherlock said reluctantly. “Boil it, collect the water vapours, and use that as a source for drinking water.”

 

“Is that really what you want to drink? Hot water? Why would you want that when there’s fresh, cold water right here?”

 

“I’m saying there’s a way to get drinking water,” he insisted.

 

“There are ways to do a lot of things. But, you’re choosing the difficult way. You have water right here, and yet you’re choosing to find a hard way to get what you already have. Come now, Sherlock. You’re suffering from sea madness, clearly.  Water will help. It will help you think a bit more clearly.”

 

Sherlock paused before he reached for the bottle. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t hold it and he had to allow Mycroft to tilt it back so he could get a drink. It was the single greatest thing he had ever tasted. The water didn’t even seem to go down his throat. His mouth was so dry he felt like he just absorbed it all.  Within seconds he was choking and sputtering, coughing up water.

 

Mycroft pulled the bottle away and gently put a hand on Sherlock’s back. “Don’t rush, the water isn’t going anywhere. I may have lied about it being the only source. We have at least a hundred of them.”

 

Sherlock almost felt like laughing but he couldn’t. He leaned back into the seat, his throat feeling less raw but his stomach churning. There was no way to win. Drinking had helped the pain in his head and his throat, but it had made his stomach and chest hurt. He closed his eyes, feeling like he was slipping away from the car. He felt very light and he only hoped that the overdose was returning so he could go back into his mind, but he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky. “Do you hate me,” he asked quietly.

 

The last thing Sherlock heard was Mycroft’s voice. “Absolutely never, Sherlock.”


End file.
